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THE 

I 

PORTLAND  SKETCH   BOOK. 


EDITED    BY 

4  « 


MRS.   ANN   S.   STEPHENS 


PORTLAND: 
COLMAN   &  CHISHOLM. 

Arthur  Shirley,   Printer. 

1836. 


Entered  according-  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1836,  by 
EDWARD  STEPHENS,  in  th^  Clerk's  Q^lce  of  the  District 
Court  of  Maine. 


PREFACE. 


THE  object  of  the  Portland  Sketch-Book,  is  to  collect 
in  a  small  compass,  literary  specimens  from  such  au- 
thors as  have  a  just  claim  to  be  styled  Portland  wri- 
ters. The  list  might  have  been  extended  to  a  much 
greater  length,  had  all  been  included  who  have  made 
our  city  a  place  of  transient  residence  ;  but  no  writer 
has  a  place  in  this  volume  who  is  not,  or  has  not  been, 
a  citizen  of  Portland,  either  by  birth  or  a  long  resi- 
dence. Therefore,  all  the  names  contained  in  these 
pages  are  emphatically  those  of  Portland  authors. 
Among  those  who  were  actually  born  here  and  either 
wholly,  or  in  part  educated  here,  will  be  found  the  fol- 
lowing names,  most  of  which  are  already  known  to  the 
world  of  literature. 

S.  B.  Beckett — James  Brooks — William  Cutter — 
Charles  S.  Daveis — Nathaniel  Deering — P.  H.  Green- 
leaf — Charles  P.  Ilsley — Joseph  Ingraham — Geo.  W. 
Light — Henry  W.  Longfellow — Grenville  Mellen — 
Frederick  Mellen — Isaac  McLellan,  Jr. — John  Neal — 
Elizabeth  Smith— William  Willis— N.  P.  Willis. 


2073069 


IV  PREFACE. 

Considering  the  population  of  our  city — hardly  fifteen 
thousand  at  this  time — the  list  itself  we  apprehend  will 
be  considered  as  not  the  least  remarkable  part  of  the 
book. 

It  was  the  design  of  the  Publishers  to  furnish  a  book 
composed  of  original  articles  from  all  our  living  auth- 
ors, and  to  select  only  from  those  who  have  been  lost 
to  us ;  but  though  great  exertions  were  made,  the  edi- 
tor found  much  difficulty  in  collecting  original  materials, 
even  after  they  had  been  promised  by  almost  every 
individual  to  whom  she  applied.  According  to  the 
original  design,  each  living  author  was  to  have  contribu- 
ted a  limited  number  of  pages  ;  but  after  frequent  dis- 
appointments, all  restrictions  were  taken  off;  each 
writer  furnished  as  many  original  pages  as  suited  his 
pleasure,  and  the  deficiency  was  supplied  by  selected 
articles.  In  her  selections,  the  editor  has  endeavored 
to  do  impartial  justice  to  our  authors,  and,  in  almost 
every  instance,  she  has  been  guided  by  them  in  her 
choice.  If  in  any  case  she  has  been  obliged  to  exer- 
cise her  own  judgment,  in  contradiction  to  theirs,  it 
was  because  the  publishers  had  restricted  her  to  a  cer- 
tain number  of  pages,  and  the  articles  proposed  would 
have  swelled  the  volume  beyond  the  prescribed  limits. 
Original  papers  are  inserted  exactly  as  they  were 
supplied  by  their  separate  authors.  A  general  invita- 
tion was  extended  ;  therefore  it  should  give  no  offence, 
if  those  who  have  contributed  largely  fill  the  greater 


PREFACE.  V 

portion  of  the  Book,  to  the  exclusion  of  much  excellent 
matter,  which  might  have  been  selected.  Several 
writers  who  did  not  forward  their  contributions  as  ex- 
pected, have  been  omitted  altogether,  as  the  editor 
could  find  nothing  of  theirs  extant  which  was  adapted 
to  a  work  strictly  literary. 

In  order  to  avoid  all  appearance  of  partiality,  it  has 
been  thought  advisable  to  make  an  alphabetical  arrange- 
ment of  names,  and  to  let  chance  decide  the  position 
of  each  author  in  the  Book. 

The  compiler  has  a  word  of  apology  to  offer,  before 
she  consigns  her  little  book  to  the  public.  Reasons 
which  will  be  easily  understood  would  have  prevented 
her  appropriating  any  considerable  portion  to  herself; 
but  she  had  contracted  with  the  publishers  to  furnish  a 
volume,  which  should  be  at  least  two  thirds  original, 
and  when  the  pages  forwarded  to  her  were  found  in- 
sufficient for  her  object,  she  was  obliged,  however  un- 
willingly, to  supply  the  deficiency. 

The  Editor  now  submits  her  Portland  Book  to  the 
public,  with  much  solicitude  that  it  may  meet  with  ap- 
probation— feeling  certain  that  indulgence  would  be 
extended  to  her,  could  it  be  known  how  much  labor 
and  difficulty  have  attended  her  slender  exertions,  in 
the  literature  of  a  city  she  has  never  ceased  to  love. 


P.  S.  AMONG  the  papers  omitted  from  necessity,  is 
one  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Nichols,  which,  owing  to  accident, 
did  not  arrive  till  the  arrangements  for  the  work  were 
entirely  completed.  In  the  absence  of  the  Editor, 
whose  own  leading  article  arrived  almost,  too  late  for 
insertion,  we  have  taken  the  liberty  to  state  the  facts, 
that  our  readers  may  understand  the  cause  of  an  omis- 
sion so  extraordinary. 


CONTENTS. 


Preface, 7 

Diamond  Cove — By  S.  B.  Beckett, 9 

Our  Own  Country— By  James  Brooks, 13 

The  Cruise  of  The  Dart— By  S.  B.  Beckett, 21 

To  M— ,  on  her  Birth-Day,— By  William  Cutter, 59 

Religious  Obligation  in  Rulers — By  John  W.  Chickering,.  60 

A  New-England  Winter  Scene — By  William  Cutter, 74 

Loch  Katrine— By  N.  H.  Carter, 78 

Worship — By  Asa  Cummings, 82 

The  Valley  of  Silence— By  William  Cutter, 86 

Descriptions  of  The  Divine  Being — By  Gershom  F.  Cox,. .  88 

The  French  Revolution— By  Charles  S.  Daveis, 98 

Mrs.  Sykes — From  the  papers  of  Dr.  Tonic,  recently 

brought  to  light — By  Nathaniel  Deering, 102 

Old  and  Young — By  James  Furbish, 115 

Autumnal  Days — By  P.  H.  Greenleaf. 119 

The  Plague— By  Charles  P.  Ilsley, 123 

'  Oh,  This  is  not  My  Home  '—By  Charles  P.  Ilsley, 125 

The  Village  Prize — By  Joseph  Ingraham, 126 

Indifference  to  Study— By  George  W.  Light, 134 

The  Village  of  Auteuil— By  Henry  W.  Longfellow, 138 


Vlll  CO.N  TENTS. 

The  Past  and  The  New  Year — By  Premiss  Mcllen, 145 

The  Ruin  of  a  Night— By  Grenville  Mellon, 150 

Courtship— By  William  L.  McClintock. 152 

Venetian  Moonlight — By  Frederick  Mellon, lf>3 

Ballooning— By  I.  McLellan,  Jr.. ICO 

Ode— By  Grenville  Mcllen. ICG 

The  Boy's  Mountain  Song— By  I.  McLellan,  Jr.. 1G7 

The  Unchangeable  Jew — By  John  Neal. 1G8 

A  War-Song  of  The  Revolution — By  John  Neal, Ib3 

Musings  on  Music — By  James  F.  Otis, 185 

Sin  estimated  by  the  Light  of  Hi  avcn — By  Edward  Payson,  194 

The  Way  of  the  Soul— By  L.  S.  P 200 

Fragments  of  An  Address  on  Music — By  Edward  Payson,    200 

The  Blush— By  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Smith. 212 

The  Widowed  Bride  — By  Mrs.  Ann  S.  Stephens. 210 

Jack  Downing's  Visit  to  Portland — By  Seba  Smith, 227 

The  Deserted  Wife — By  Mrs.  Ann  S.  Stephens, .272 

Portland  as  it  Was— By  William  Willis, 231 

The  Cherokee's  Threat— By  N.  P.  Willis 231) 

Grecian  and  Roman  Eloquence — By  Ashur  Ware, 25G 

Religion — By  Jason  Whitman, 209 


PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK 


DIAMOND  COVE. 


A  BEAUTEOUS  Cove,  amid  the  isles 

That  sprinkle  Casco's  winding  bay, 

Where,  like  .an  Eden,  nature  smiles 

In  all  her  wild  and  rich  array. 

'  Tis  sheltered  from  the  ocean's  roar 

By  beetling  crags  and  foam-girt  rifts, 

And  mossy  trees,  that  ages  hoar 

Have  braved  the  sea-gales  on  its  cliffs ! 

The  broad-armed  oak,  the  beech  and  pine, 

And  elm,  their  branches  intertwine 

Above  its  tranquil,  glassy  face, 

So  that  the  sun  finds  scarcely  space 

At  mid-day,  for  his  fervid  beam 

To  shimmer  on  the  limpid  stream ; 

And  in  its  rugged,  sparry  caves, 

Worn  by  the  winter's  tempest  waves, 

Gleams  many  a  crystal  wildly  bright 

Like  diamonds,  flashing  radiant  light, 

And  hence  the  fairy  spot  is  '  hight.' 

The  forests  far  extending  round, 
Ne^er  to  the  spoiler's  axe  resound ; 
Nor  is  man's  toil  or  traces  there; 
2 


10  THE    1'ORTLAND    SKETCH    BOOK. 

But  rcsieth  all  as  lone  and  fair — 

The  sunny  slopes,  the  rocks  and  trees, 

As  desert  isles  in  Indian  seas, 

That  sometimes  rise  upon  the  view 

Of  some  far-wandering,  wind-bound  crew, 

Sleeping  alone  mid  ocean's  blue. 

The  lonely  ospray  rears  her  brood 
Deep  in  the  forest-solitude  ; 
And  through  the  long,  bright  summer  day, 
When  ocean,  calm  as  mountain  lake, 
Bears  not  a  breath  its  hush  to  break, 
The  snow-winged  sea-gull  tilts  away 
Upon  the  long,  smooth  swell,  that  sweeps, 
In  curving,  wide,  unbroken  reach, 
Into  the  cove  from  outer  deeps, 
Unwinding  up  the  pebbly  beach. 

Oft  blithly  ring  the  wide  old  woods, 
Within  their  loneliest  solitudes, 
To  youthful  shout,  and  song,  and  glee, 
And  viol's  merry  minstrelsy, 
When  summer's  stirlcss,  sultry  air 
Pervades  the  city's  thoroughfare, 
And  drives  the  throng  to  seek  the  shades 
Of  these  green,  zephyr-breathing  glades ! 
The  dance  goes  round  ;  the  trunks  so  tall- 
Rough  columns  of  the  festal  hall — 
Sustain  a  broad  and  lofty  roof 
Of  nature's  greenest,  loveliest  woof! 
The  maiden  weaves,  in  lieu  of  wreath, 
The  bending  fern-plumes  in  her  hair, 
And  the  wild  flowers  with  scented  breath, 
That  spring  to  blossom  every  where 
Around  ;  the  forest's  dream-like  rest 
Drives  care  and  sorrow  from  each  breast, 
And  makes  the  worn  and  weary  blest ! 

And  when  the  broad,  dim  waters  blush 
Beneath  the  tints  of  ebbing  day, 


DIAMOND    COVE.  11 

When  comes  the  moon  out  in  the  hush 
Of  eve,  with  mellow,  timid  ray, 
And  twilight  lingers  far  away 
On  the  blue  waste,  the  fisher's  skiff 
Comes  dancing  in,  and  'neath  the  cliff 
Is  moored  to  rest,  till  morning's  train 
Beams  with  fresh  beauty  o'er  the  main, 
And  wakes  him  to  his  toil  again ! 

O,  lovely  there  is  sunset-hour ! 
When  twilight  falls  with  soothing  power 
Along  the  forest-windings  dim, 
And  from  the  thicket,  sweet  and  low, 
The  red-breast  tunes  a  farewell  hymn 
To  daylight's  latest,  lingering  glow — • 
When  slope,  and  rock,  and  wood  around, 
In  all  their  dreamy,  hushed  repose, 
Are  glassed  adown  the  bright  profound — 
And  passing  fair  is  evening's  close ! 
When  from  the  bright,  cerulean  dome, 
The  sea-fowl,  that  have  all  the  day 
Wheeled  o'er  the  far,  lone  billows'  spray, 
Come  thronging  to  their  eyries  home ; 
When  over  rock  and  wave,  remote, 
From  yon  dim  fort,  the  bugle's  note 
Along  the  listening  air  doth  creep, 
Seeming  to  steal  down  from  the  sky, 
Or  with  out-bursting,  martial  sweep 
Rings  through  the  forests,  clanging  high, 
While  echo  waked  bears  on  the  strain, 
Till  faint,  beyond  the  trackless  main, 
In  realms  of  space  it  seems  to  die. 
But  lovelier  still  is  night's  calm  noon ! 
When  like  a  sea-nymph's  fairy  bark, 
The  mirrored  crescent  of  the  moon 
Swings  on  the  waters  weltering  dark  ; 
And  in  her  solitary  beam, 
Upon  each  bald,  storm-beaten  height, 
The  quartz  and  mica  wildly  gleam, 
Spangling  the  rocks  with  magic  light; 


12         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK, 

Ami  when  a  silvery  minstrelsy 

Is  swelling  6'cr  the  dim-lit  sea, 

As  of  some  wandering  fairy  throng, 

Passing  on  viewless  wing  along, 

Tuning  their  spirit-lyres  to  song ; 

And  when  the  night's  soft  breeze  eomes  out. 

And  for  a  moment  breathes  about, 

Shaking  a  burst  of  fresh  perfume 

From  every  honied  bell  and  bloom, 

Startling  the  tall  pine  from  its  rest, 

And  sleeping  wood-bird  in  her  nest, 

Or  kissing  the  bright  water's  breast ; 

Then  stealing  off  into  the  shade, 

As  if  it  were  a  thing  afraid  1 

The  Indian  prized  this  beauteous  spot 
Of  old  ;  beneath  the  embowering  shade 
He  reared  his  rude  and  simple  cot  \ 
And  round  these  wild  shores  where  they  played 
In  youth,  still — pilgrims  from  the  bourn 
Of  far  Penobscot's  sinuous  stream, 
Aged  and  bowed,  and  weary  worn — 
Lingering  they  love  to  stray,  and  dream 
O'er  the  proud  hopes  possessed  of  yore, 
When  forest,  isle  and  mainland  shore, 
For  many  a  league,  owned  but  their  sway  ; 
Wheny  on  the  labyrinthine  bay, 
Now  checkered  o'er  with  many  a  sail, 
Alone  his  lightsome  birch  canoe 
Fast,  by  the  bright,  green  islets  flew, 
Nor  bark  spread  canvas  to  the  gale- 
Matchless  retreat !  mayst  aye  remain 
As  wild,  as  natural  and  free 
As  now  thou  art ;  nor  hope  of  gain, 
Nor  enterprize  a  motive  be 
To  lay  thy  hoary  forests  low ; 
Gold  ne'er  can  make  thy  beauties  glow, 
Nor  enterprize  restore  thy  pride, 
Whea  once  the  monarchs  round  thy  tide, 
Have  felt  the  exterminating  blow. 


OUR  OWN  COUNTRY. 

By  James  Brooke. 

WHAT  nation  presents  such  a  spectacle  as  ours,  of  a 
confederated  government,  so  complicated,  so  full  of 
checks  and  balances,  over  such  a  vast  extent  of  terri- 
tory, with  so  many  varied  interests,  and  yet  moving  so 
harmoniously  !  I  go  within  the  walls  of  the  capitol  at 
Washington,  and  there,  under  the  star-spangled  banners 
that  wave  amid  its  domes,  I  find  the  representatives  of 
three  territories,  and  of  twenty-four  nations,  nations  in 
many  senses  they  may  be  called,  that  have  within  them 
all  the  germ  and  sinew  to  raise  a  greater  people  than 
many  of  the  proud  principalities  of  Europe,  all  speak- 
ing one  language — all  acting  with  one  heart,  and  all 
burning  with  the  same  enthusiasm — the  love  and  glory 
of  our  common  country , — even  if  parties  do  exist,  and 
bitter  domestic  quarrels  now  and  then  arise.  I  take  my 
map,  and  I  mark  from  whence  they  come.  What  a 
breadth  of  latitude,  and  of  longitude,  too,- — in  the  fairest 
portion  of  North- America  I  What  a  variety  of  cli- 
mate,— and  then  what  a  variety  of  production  !  WThat 
a  stretch  of  sea-coast,  on  two  oceans — with  harbors 
enough  for  all  the  commerce  of  the  world  1  What  an 
immense  national  domain,  surveyed,  and  unsurveyed, 
of  extinguished,  and  unextinguished  Indian  titles  within 
the  States  and  Territories,  and  without,  estimated,  in 
the  aggregate,  to  be  1,090,871,753  acres,  and  to  be 
worth  the  immense  sum  of  $1,363,589,69,— 750,000- 
000  acres  of  which  are  without  the  bounds  of  the  States 
2* 


14         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

and  the  territories,  and  are  yet  to  make  new  States 
and  to  be  admitted  into  the  Union !  Our  annual  reve- 
nue, now,  from  the  sales,  is  over  three  millions  of  dol- 
lars. Our  national  debt,  too,  is  already  more  than  extin- 
guished,— and  yet  within  fifty-eight  years,  starting  with 
a  population  of  about  three  millions,  we  have  fought 
the  War  of  Independence,  again  not  ingloriously  strug- 
gled with  the  greatest  naval  power  in  the  world,  fresh 
with  laurels  won  on  sea  and  land, — and  now  we  have 
a  population  of  over  thirteen  millions  of  souls.  One 
cannot  feel  the  grandeur  of  our  Republic,  unless  he 
surveys  it  in  detail.  For  example,  a  Senator  in  Con- 
gress, from  Louisiana,  has  just  arrived  in  Washington. 
Twenty  days  of  his  journey  he  passed  in  a  steam-boat 
on  inland  waters, — moving  not  so  rapidly,  perhaps,  as 
other  steam-boats  sometimes  move,  in  deeper  waters, — 
but  constantly  moving,  at  a  quick  pace  too,  day  and 
night.  I  never  shall  forget  the  rapture  of  a  traveller, 
who  left  the  green  parks  of  New  Orleans  early  in 
March, — that  land  of  the  orange  and  the  olive,  then 
teeming  with  verdure,  freshness  and  life,  and,  as  it 
were,  mocking  him  with  the  mid-summer  of  his  own 
northern  home.  He  journeyed  leisurely  toward  the 
region  of  ice  and  snow,  to  watch  the  budding  of  the 
young  flowers,  and  to  catch  the  breeze  of  the  Spring. 
He  crossed  the  Lakes  Pontchartrain  and  Borgne ;  he 
ascended  the  big  Tombeckbee  in  a  comfortable  steam- 
boat. From  Tuscaloosa,  he  shot  athwart  the  wilds  of 
Alabama,  over  Indian  grounds,  that  bloody  battles  have 
rendered  ever  memorable.  He  traversed  Georgia,  the 
Carolinas,  ranged  along  the  base  of  the  mountains  of 
Virginia, — and  for  three  months  and  more,  he  enjoyed 
one  perpetual,  one  unvarying,  ever-coming  Spring, — 


OUR    OWN    COUNTRY.  15 

that  most  delicious  season  of  the  year, — till,  by  the 
middle  of  June,  he  found  himself  in  the  fogs  of  the 
Passamaquoddy,  where  tardy  summer  was  even  then 
hesitating  whether  it  was  time  to  come.  And  yet  he 
had  not  been  off  the  soil  of  his  own  country !  The  flag 
that  he  saw  on  the  summit  of  the  fortress,  on  the  lakes 
near  New  Orleans,  was  the  like  of  that  which  floated 
from  the  staff  on  the  hills  of  Fort  Sullivan,  in  the  east- 
ernmost extremity  of  Maine ; — and  the  morning  gun 
that  startled  his  slumbers,  among  the  rocky  battlements 
that  defy  the  wild  tides  of  the  Bay  of  Fundy,  was  not 
answered  till  many  minutes  after,  on  the  shores  of  the 
Gulf  of  Mexico.  The  swamps,  the  embankments,  the 
cane-brakes  of  the  Father  of  Waters,  on  whose  muddy 
banks  the  croaking  alligator  displayed  his  ponderous 
jaws, — the  cotton-fields,  the  rice-grounds  of  the  low 
southern  country, — and  the  vast  fields  of  wheat  and 
corn  in  the  regions  of  the  mountains,  were  far,  far  be- 
hind him  : — and  he  was  now,  in  a  Hyperborean  land — 
where  nature  wore  a  rough  and  surly  aspect,  and  a 
cold  soil  and  a  cold  clime,  drove  man  to  launch  his 
bark  upon  the  ocean,  to  dare  wind  and  wave,  and  to 
seek  from  the  deep,  in  fisheries,  and  from  freights,  the 
treasures  his  own  home  will  not  give  him.  Indeed, 
such  a  journey  as  this,  in  one's  own  country,  to  an  in- 
quisitive mind,  is  worth  all  '  the  tours  of  Europe.'  If 
a  young  American,  then,  wishes  to  feel  the  full  impor- 
tance of  an  American  Congress,  let  him  make  such  a 
journey.  Let  him  stand  on  the  levee  at  New  Orleans 
and  count  the  number  and  the  tiers  of  American  vessels 
that  there  lie,  four,  five  and  six  thick,  on  its  long  em- 
bankment. Let  him  hear  the  puff,  puff,  puff,  of  the 
high-pressure  steam-boats,  that  come  sweeping  in  almost 


16         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

every  hour,  perhaps  from  a  port  two  thousand  miles 
off, — from  the  then  frozen  winter  of  the  North,  to  the 
full  burning  summer  of  the  South, — all  inland  naviga- 
tion,— fleets  of  them  under  his  eye, — splendid  boats, 
too,  many  of  them,  as  the  world  can  show, — with  ele- 
gant rooms,  neat  berths,  spacious  saloons,  and  a  costly 
piano,  it  may  be, — so  that  travellers  of  both  sexes  can 
dance  or  sing  their  way  to  Louisville,  as  if  they  were  on 
a  party  of  pleasure.  Let  him  survey  all  these,  as  they 
come  in  with  products  from  the  Red  River,  twelve 
hundred  miles  in  one  direction,  or  from  Pittsburg, 
Pennsylvania,  two  thousand  miles  in  another  directionT 
from  the  western  tributaries  of  the  vast  Mississippi,  the 
thickets  of  the  Arkansas,  or  White  River, — from  the 
muddy,  far-reaching  Missouri,  and  its  hundreds  of 
branches  : — and  then  in  the  east,  from  the  Illinois,  the 
Ohio,  and  its  numerous  tributaries — such  as  the  Ten- 
nessee, the  Cumberland,  or  the  meanest  of  which,  such 
as  the  Sandy  River,  on  the  borders  of  Kentucky — that 
will  in  a  freshet  fret  and  roar,  and  dash,  as  if  it  were 
the  Father  of  Floods,  till  it  sinks  into  nothing,  when 
embosomed  in  the  greater  stream,  and  there  acknow- 
ledges its  own  insignificance.  Let  him  see  '  the  Broad 
Horns,'  the  adventurous  flatboats  of  western  waters,  on 
which — frail  bark ! — the  daring  backwoodsman  sallies 
forth  from  the  Wabash,  or  rivers  hundreds  of  miles 
above,  on  a  voyage  of  atlantic  distance,  with  hogs — 
hoi?ses — oxen  and  cattle  of  all  kinds  on  board — corn, 
flour,  wheat,  all  the  products  of  rich  western  lands — 
and  let  him  see  them,  too,  as  he  stems  the  strong  cur- 
rent of  the  Mississippi,  as  if  the  wood  on  which  he  float- 
ed was  realizing  the  fable  of  the  Nymphs  of  Ida — god- 
desses, instead  of  pines.  Take  the  young  traveller 


OTTR    OWN    COUNTRY.  17 

where  the  clear,  silvery  waters  of  the  Ohio-  become 
tinged  with  the  mud  from  the  Missouri,  and  where  the 
currents  of  the  mighty  rivers  run  apart  for  miles,  as  if 
indignant  at  the  strange  embrace.  Ascend  with  him 
farther,  to  St.  Louis,  where,  if  he  looks  upon  the  map 
he  will  find  that  he  is  about  as  near  the  east  as  the  west, 
and  that  soon,  the  emigrant,  who  is  borne  on  the  wave 
of  population  that  now  beats  at  the  base  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  and  anon  will  overleap  its  summits — will 
speak  of  him  as  he  now  speaks  of  New-England,  as  far 
in  the  east.  And  then  tell  him  that  far  west  as  he  is, 
he  is  but  at  the  beginning  of  steam  navigation — that  the 
Mississippi  itself  is  navigable  six  or  seven  hundred 
miles  upward — and  that  steam-boats  have  actually  gone 
on  the  Missouri  two  thousand  one  hundred  miles  above 
its  mouth,  and  that  they  can  go  five  hundred  miles  far- 
ther still !  Take  him,  then,  from  this  land  where  the 
woodsman  is  leveling  the  forest  every  hour,  across 
the  rich  prairies  of  Illinois,  where  civilization  is  throw- 
ing up  towns  and  villages,  pointed  with  the  spire  of  the 
church,  and  adorned  with  the  college  and  the  school, — 
then  athwart  the  flourishing  fields  of  Indiana,  to  Cincin- 
nati,— well  called  '  the  Queen  of  the  West,' — a  city  of 
thirty  thousand  inhabitants,  with  paved  streets,  nume- 
rous churches,  flourishing  manufactories,  and  an  intel- 
ligent society  too, — and  this  in  a  State  with  a  million 
of  souls  in  it  now,  that  has  undertaken  gigantic  public 
works, — where  the  fierce  savages,  even  within  the 
memory  of  the  young  men,  made  the  hearts  of  their 
parents  quake  with  fear, — roaming  over  the  forests,  as 
they  did,  in  unbridled  triumph, — wielding  the  tomahawk 
in  terror,  and  ringing  the  war-hoop  like  demons  of  ven- 
geance let  loose  from  below  !  Show  him  our  immense 


18          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

inland  seas,  from  Green  Bay  to  Lake  Ontario, — not 
inconsiderable  oceans, — encompassed  with  fertile  fields. 
Show  him  the  public  works  of  the  Empire  State,  as 
well  as  those  of  Pennsylvania, — works  the  wonder  of 
the  world, — such  as  no  people  in  modern  times  have 
ever  equalled.  And  then  introduce  him  to  the  busy, 
humming,  thriving  population  of  New-England,  from 
the  Green  Mountains  of  Vermont,  the  Switzerland  of 
America,  to  the  northern  lakes  and  wide  sea-coast  of 
Maine.  Show  him  the  industry,  energy,  skill  and  in- 
genuity of  these  hardy  people,  who  let  not  a  rivulet 
run,  nor  a  puff  of  wind  blow,  without  turning  it  to  some 
account, — who  mingle  in  every  thing,  speculate  in 
every  thing,  and  dare  every  thing  wherever  a  cent  of 
money  is  to  be  earned — whose  lumbermen  are  found 
not  only  in  the  deepest  woods  of  the  snowy  and  fearful 
wilds  of  Maine,  throwing  up  sawmills  on  the  lone  wa- 
terfalls, and  making  the  woods  ring  with  their  hissing 
music — but  found,  too,  on  the  banks  of  the  St.  Law- 
rence, and  coming  also  on  mighty  rafts  of  deal  from 
every  eastern  tributary  of  the  wild  St.  John,  Meduxne- 
keag  and  Aroostook,  streams  whose  names  geographers 
hardly  know.  And  then  too,  as  if  this  were  not  enough, 
they  turn  their  cntcrprize  and  form  companies  '  to  log 
and  lumber,'  even  on  the  Ocmulgee  and  Oconee  of  the 
State  of  Georgia — and  on  this  day  they  are  actually 
found  in  the  Floridas,  there  planning  similar  schemes, 
and  as  there  are  no  waterfalls,  making  steam  impel 
their  saws.  Show  him  the  banks  of  the  Penobscot, 
now  studded  with  superb  villages — jewels  of  places, 
that  have  sprung  up  like  magic — the  magnificent  mili- 
tary road  that  leads  to  the  United  States'  garrison  at 
Houlton,  a  fairy  spot  in  the  wilderness,  but  approach- 


CtfJR    OWN    COUNTRY.  19 

ed  by  as  excellent  a  road  as  the  United  States  can 
boast  of. 

Show  him  the  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  coasters  that 
run  up  every  creek  and  inlet  of  tide-water  there,  at 
times  left  high  and  dry,  as  if  the  ocean  would  never 
float  them  more :  and  then  lift  him  above  considera- 
tions of  a  mercenary  character,  and  show  him  how 
New-England  men  are  perpetuating  their  high  charac- 
ter and  holy  love  of  liberty, — and  how,  by  neat  and 
elegant  churches,  that  adorn  every  village, — by  com- 
fortable school-houses,  that  appear  every  two  miles,  or 
oftener,  upon  almost  every  road,  free  for  every  body, — 
high-born,  and  low-born, — by  academies  and  colleges, 
that  thicken  even  to  an  inconvenience ;  by  asylums 
and  institutions,  munificently  endowed,  for  the  benefit 
of  the  poor : — and  see,  too,  with  what  generous  pride 
their  bosoms  swell  when  they  go  within  the  consecrated 
walls  of  Faneuil  Hall,  or  point  out  the  heights  of  Bun- 
ker Hill,  or  speak  of  Concord,  or  Lexington. 

Give  any  young  man  such  a  tour  as  this — the  best 
he  can  make — and  I  am  sure  his  heart  will  beat  quick, 
when  he  sees  the  proud  spectacle  of  the  assemblage  of 
the  representatives  of  all  these  people,  and  all  these 
interests,  within  a  single  hall.  He  will  more  and  more 
revere  the  residue  of  those  revolutionary  patriots,  who 
not  only  left  us  such  a  heritage,  won  by  their  sufferings 
and  their  blood,  but  such  a  constitution — such  a  gov- 
ernment here  in  Washington,  regulating  all  our  national 
concerns — but  who  have  also,  in  effect,  left  us  twenty- 
four  other  governments,  with  territory  enough  to  double 
them  by-and-by — that  regulate  all  the  minor  concerns 
of  the  people,  acting  within  their  own  sphere  ;  now,  in 
the  winter,  assembling  within  their  various  capitols,  from 


20  THE    PORTLAND    SKETCHBOOK. 

Jefferson  city,  on  Missouri,  to  Augusta,  on  the  Kenne- 
bcc  ; — from  the  capitol  on  the  Hudson,  to  the  govern- 
ment house  on  the  Mississippi.  Show  me  a  spectacle 
more  glorious,  more  encouraging,  than  this,  even  in 
the  pages  of  all  history ;  such  a  constellation  of  free 
States,  with  no  public  force,  but  public  opinion — moving 
by  well  regulated  law — each  in  its  own  proper  orbit, 
around  the  brighter  star  in  Washington, — thus  realiz- 
ing, as  it  were,  on  earth,  almost  practically,  the  beau- 
tiful display  of  infinite  wisdom,  that  fixed  the  sun  in  the 
centre,  and  sent  the  revolving  planets  on  their  errands. 
God  grant  it  may  end  as  with  them  ! 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DART. 

By  S.  B.  Beckett. 

"  There  was  an  old  and  quiet  man, 

And   by  the  fire  sat  he ; 
And  now,  said  he,  to  you  I'll  tell 
Things  passing  strange  that  once  befell 
A  ship  upon  the  sea." — MaryHoioitt. 

"  THERE  she  is,  Ricardo,"  said  I  to  my  friend,  as  we 
reached  the  end  of  the  pier,  in  Havana,  while  the  Dart 
lay  about  half  a  mile  off  the  shore, — "  what  think  you 
of  her  1" 

"  Beautiful ! — a  more  symmetrical  craft  never  passed 
the  Moro ! " 

So  thought  I,  and  my  heart  responded  with  a  thrill 
of  pride  to  the  sentiment.  How  saucy  she  looked, 
with  her  gay  streamers  abroad  upon  the  winds,  and  the 
red-striped  flag  of  the  Union  floating  jauntily  at  the 
main  peak — with  her  lofty  masts  tapering  away,  till, 
relieved  against  the  blue  abyss,  they  were  apparently 
diminished  to  the  size  of  willow  wands,  while  the  slight 
ropes  that  supported  the  upper  spars  seemed,  from  the 
pier,  like  the  fairy  tracery  of  the  spider.  Although  sur- 
rounded by  ships,  xebecs,  brigantines,  polacres,  gal- 
leys and  galliots  from  almost  every  clime  in  Christen- 
dom, she  stood  up  conspicuously  among  them  all,  an 
apt  representative  of  the  land  whence  she  came  !  But 
let  us  take  a  nearer  view  of  the  beauty.  The  hull  was 
long,  low,  and  at  the  bows  almost  as  sharp  as  the  mis- 
sile after  which  she  was  named.  From  the  waist  to 
the  stern  she  tapered  away  in  the  most  graceful  pro- 
3 


22         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

portions,  and  she  had  as  lovely  a  run  as  ever  slid  over 
the  dancing  billows.  Light  and  graceful  as  a  sea-bird, 
she  rocked  on  the  undulating  water.  But  her  rig ! — 
herein,  to  my  thinking,  was  her  chiefest  beauty — every 
thing  pertaining  to  it  was  so  exact,  so  even  and  so 
tanto.  Besides  the  sail  usually  carried  by  man-of-war 
schooners,  she  had  the  requisite  appertenances  for  a 
royal  and  flying  kite,  or  sky-sail,  which,  now  that  she 
was  in  port,  were  all  rigged  up.  Not  another  vessel  of 
her  class  in  the  navy  could  spread  so  much  canvas  to 
the  influence  of  old  Boreas  as  the  Dart. 

Her  armament  consisted  of  one  long  brass  twenty- 
four  pounder,  mounted  on  a  revolving  carriage  mid- 
ships, and  six  twelve-pound  carronades.  Add  to  this 
a  picked  crew  of  ninety  men,  with  the  redoubtable 
Jonathan  West  as  our  captain,  Mr.  Dacre  Dacres  as  first, 
and  your  humble  servant,  Ahasuerus  Hackinsack,  as 
second  lieutenant,  besides  a  posse  of  minor  officers 
and  middies, — and  you  may  form  a  faint  idea  of  the 
Dart. 

Bidding  adieu  to  my  friend,  I  jumped  into  the  pin- 
nace waiting,  and  in  a  few  minutes  stood  on  her  quar- 
ter deck. 

But  it  will  be  necessary  for  me  to  explain  for  what 
purpose  the  Dart  was  here.  She  had  been  dispatched 
by  government  to  cruise  among  the  Leeward  Islands, 
and  about  Cape  St.  Antonio,  in  quest  of  a  daring  band 
of  pirates,  who,  trusting  to  their  superior  prowess  and 
the  fleetness  of  their  vessel,  a  schooner  called  the  Sea- 
Sprite,  had  long  scourged  the  merchantmen  of  the  In- 
dian seas  with  impunity.  Cruiser  after  cruiser  had 
been  sent  out  to  attack  them  in  vain.  She  had  inva- 
riably escaped,  until  at  length,  in  reality,  they  were  left 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DART.  23 

for  awhile,  the  undisputed  '  rulers  of  the  waves,'  as 
they  vauntingly  styled  themselves.  It  was  said  of  the 
Sea-Sprite,  that  she  was  as  fleet  as  the  winds,  and  as 
mysterious  in  her  movements ;  and  her  master  spirit, 
the  fierce  Juan  Fiesta,  was  as  wily  and  fierce  a  rob- 
ber, as  ever  prowled  upon  the  western  waters.-  Indeed, 
so  wonderful  and  various  had  been  his  escapes,  that 
many  of  the  Spaniards,  and  the  lower  orders  of  seamen 
in  general,  believed  him  to  be  leagued  with  the  Powers 
of  Darkness ! 

But  the  Dart  had  been  fitted  up  for  the  present 
cruise  expressly  on  account  of  her  matchless  speed, 
and  our  captain,  generally  known  in  the  service  by  the 
significant  appellation  of  Old  Satan  West,  was,  in  situa- 
tions where  fighting  or  peril  formed  any  part  of  the 
story,  a  full  match  for  his  namesake. 

*  *  '  *  * 

After  cruising  about  the  western  extremity  of  Cuba, 
for  nearly  a  month,  to  no  purpose,  we  bore  away  for 
the  southern  coast  of  St.  Domingo,  and  at  the  time  my 
story  opens,  were  off  Jacquemel.  The  morning  was 
heralded  onward  by  troops  of  clouds,  of  the  most 
brilliant  and  burning  hues — deep  crimson  ridges — fire- 
fringed  volumes  of  purple,  hanging  far  in  the  depths  of 
the  mild  and  beautiful  heaven — long,  rose-tinted  and 
golden  plumes,  stretching  up  from  the  horizon  to  the 
zenith, — forming  altogether  a  most  gorgeous  and  mag- 
nificent spectacle,  while,  to  complete  the  pageant,  the 
sun,  just  rising  from  his  ocean  lair,  shed  a  flood  of 
glaring  light  far  over  the  restless  expanse  toward  us, 
and  every  rope  and  spar  of  our  vessel,  begemmed  with 
bright  dew-drops,  flashed  and  twinkled  in  his  beams, 
like  the  jeweled  robes  of  a  princely  bride. 


24          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

"  Fore  top  there!  what's  that  away  in  the  wake  o' 
the  sun  1 "  called  out  Mr.  Dacres. 

"  A  drifting  spar,  I  believe,  Sir — but  the  sun  throws 
such  a  glare  on  the  water  I  cannot  see  plainly." 

I  looked  in  the  direction  pointed  out,  and  saw  a 
dark  object  tumbling  about  on  the  fiery  swell,  like  an 
evil  spirit  in  torment.  We  altered  our  course  and  stood 
away  toward  it.  It  turned  out  to  be  a  boat,  apparently 
empty,  but  on  a  nearer  inspection  we  perceived  a  man 
lying  under  its  thwarts,  whose  pale,  lank  features  and 
sunken  eye  bespoke  him  as  suffering  the  last  pangs  of 
starvation.  My  surprise  can  better  be  imagined  than 
described,  on  discovering  in  the  unfortuate  man  a 
highly  loved  companion  of  my  boyhood,  Frederick 
Percy !  He  was  transferred  from  his  miserable  quar- 
ters to  a  snug  berth  on  board  of  the  Dart,  and  in  a  few 
hours,  by  the  judicious  management  of  our  surgeon, 
was  resuscitated,  so  as  to  be  able  to  come  on  deck. 

His  story  may  be  told  in  a  few  words.  He  had  been 
travelling  in  England — while  there  had  married  a  beau- 
tiful, but  friendless  orphan.  Soon  after  this  occurrence 
he  embarked  in  one  of  his  father's  ships  for  Philadel- 
phia, intending  to  touch  at  St.  Domingo  city,  and  take 
in  a  freight.  But,  three  days  before,  when  within  a 
few  hours'  sail  of  their  destined  port,  they  had  fallen  in 
with  a  piratical  schooner,  which,  after  a  short  struggle, 
succeeded  in  capturing  them.  While  protecting  his 
wife  from  the  insults  of  the  bucaneers,  he  received  a 
blow  in  the  temple,  which  deprived  him  of  his  senses  ; 
and  when  he  awoke  to  consciousness  it  was  night,  wild 
and  dark,  and  he  was  tossing  on  the  lone  sea,  without 
provisions,  sail  or  oars,  as  we  had  found  him.  For  three 
days  he  had  not  tasted  food.  Poor  fellow  !  his  anxiety 


THE    CRUISE    OF    THE    DART.  25 

as  "co  the  fate  of  his  wife  almost  drove  him  to  distrac- 
tion. 

This  circumstance  assured  us  that  we  were  on  the 
right  trail  of  the  marauder  whom  we  sought.  We  con- 
tinued beating  up  the  coast  till  noon,  when  the  breeze 
died  away  into  a  stark  calm,  and  we  lay  rolling  on  the 
long  glassy  swell,  about  ten  leagues  from  the  St.  Do- 
mingo shore.  The  sun  was  intensely  powerful,  glow- 
ing through  the  hazy  atmosphere,  directly  over  our 
heads,  like  a  red-hot  cannon  ball ;  and  the  far-stretch- 
ing main  was  as  sultry  and  arid  as  the  sands  of  an 
African  desert.  To  the  north,  the  cloud-topped  moun- 
tains of  St.  Domingo  obstructed  our  view,  looming 
through  the  blue  haze  to  an  immense  height — present- 
ing to  us  the  aspect  of  huge,  flat,  shadowy  walls  ;  and 
one  need  have  taxed  his  imagination  but  lightly,  to 
fancy  them  the  boundaries  dividing  us  from  a  bright- 
er and  a  better  clime.  The  depths  of  the  ocean  were 
as  translucent  as  an  unobscured  summer  sky,  and  far 
beneath  us  we  could  distinguish  the  dolphins  and  king- 
fish,  roaming  leisurely  about,  or  darting  hither  and  thi- 
ther as  some  object  attracted  their  pursuit ;  while  near- 
er its  surface  the  blue  element  was  alive  with  myriads 
of  minor  nondescripts,  riggling,  flouncing  and  lazily 
moving  up  and  down, — probably  attracted  by  the  shade 
of  our  dark  hulL 

The  men  having  little  else  to  do,  obtained  from  the 
captain  permission  to  fish.  Directly  they  had  hauled 
in  a  dozen  or  more  of  the  most  ill-favored,  shapeless, 
unchristian-looking  articles  I  ever  clapped  eyes  on, 
which,  when  I  came  from  aft,  were  dancing  their 
death  jigs  on  the  forecastle-deck,  much  to  the  diver- 
sion of  the  captain's  black  waiter,  Essequibo. 

3* 

#» 


26          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

"  Halloo  ! — this  way,  blackcy  !  "  shouted  an  old  tar 
to  the  merry  African,  who,  by  the  way,  was  a  kind  of 
reference  table  for  the  whole  crew — "  Egad  !  Billy, 
look  here, — what  do  you  call  this  comical  looking 
devil  that  has  helped  himself  to  my  hook  1  Why  !  his 
body  is  as  long  as  the  articles  of  discipline,  and  his 
mouth  almost  as  long  as  his  body ! — your  own  main- 
hatch-way  is  not  a  circumstance  to  it ! " 

"  Him  be  one  gar  fish — ocium  gar ! — he  no  good 
for  eat,"  answered  the  black  with  a  grin  that  drew  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  almost  back  to  his  ears,  so  that, 
to  appearance,  small  was  the  hinge  that  kept  brain  and 
body  together. 

At  the  sight  the  querist  dropped  the  fish,  exclaiming 
with  feigned  wonder,  "  By  all  that's  crooked,  an  even 
bet ! — ar'n't  your  mouth  made  ov  injy  rubber,  Billy  1 " 

"  Good  ting  to  hab  de  larsh  mout,  Misser  Mcngo, — 
eat  de  more — lib  de  longer,"  said  Billy. 

"  Screw  your  blinkers  this  way,  Jack  Simpson,  there's 
a  prize  for  you,"  said  another,  as  he  dragged  a  huge 
lump-headed,  bull-eyed,  tail-less  mass  out  of  the  water, 
with  fins  protruding,  like  thorns,  from  every  part  of  his 
body  ! — "  Guess  he's  one  of  the  fighting  cocks  down 
below,  seeing  his  spurs  ! — any  how,  he's  well  armed,— 
I'll  be  keel-hauled,  if  he  don't  look  like  the  beauty  that 
we  saw  carved  out  on  the  Frencher's  stern,  with  the 
Neptune  bestride  it,  in  Havana,  barin*  he  wants  a  tail ! 
Han't  he  a  queer  un  1 — but  how  in  natur  do  you  sup- 
pose he  makes  out  to  steer  without  a  rudder  1 " 

"  Steer  wid  he  head  turn  behin'  him ! "  answered 
Seignor  Essequibo,  bursting  into  a  chuckling  laugh — 
mightily  tickled  with  the  struggles  of  the  ungainly 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DART.  27 

monster, — "  Che,  chc,  che  ! — him  sea-dragum— catch 
um  plenty  on  de  cos  ob  Barbado.  Take  care  ob  him 
horn ! " 

"  Yo,  heave,  ho !  Shaint  Pathrick,  an'  it's  me  what's 
caught  a  whale ! "  drawled  out  a  brawny  Patlander, 
while  he  tugged  and  sweated  to  heave  in  his  prize. 

"  My  gorra !  you  hook  one  barracouter !  "  cried 
Billy,  as  his  eye  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  big  fish  cur- 
veting in  the  water  at  the  end  of  Paddy's  line, — "  Bes' 
fish  in  de  worl' ! — good  for  make  um  chowder — good 
for  fry — for  ebery  ting, — me  help  you  pull  him  in, 
Massa  Coulan,"  and  without  further  ado,  he  laid  hold 
of  the  line.  The  beautiful  fish  was  hauled  in,  and 
consigned  to  the  custody  of  the  cook. 

"  Stave  in  my  bulwarks,  if  this  'ere  dragon-fish  ha'n't 
stuck  one  of  his  horns  into  my  foot  an  inch  deep ! " 
roared  an  old  marine, — "  Hand  me  that  sarving  mal- 
let, snow  ball,  I'll  see  if  I  can't  give  him  a  hint  to 
behave  better ! " 

"  Hurrah ! — here  comes  an  owl-fish,  I  reckon ;  " 
shouted  a  merry  wight  of  a  tar,  from  the  land  of  wood- 
en nutmegs, — "  specimen  of  the  salt-water  owl !  Lord, 
look  at  his  teeth — how  he  grins ! — What  are  you 
laughing  at,  my  beauty  1 " 

"  Le  diable  !  une  chouette  dans  la  merl "  exclaimed 
a  little  wizen-pated  Frenchman,  who  had  seated  him- 
self astraddle  of  the  cathead. — "  Vel,  Monsieur  Vaga- 
stafsh,  comment  nommez  vous  dish  petit  poisson  1 " 

"  Poison  !  No,  Monsheer,  I  rather  guess  there  han't 
the  least  bit  o'  poison  in  natur  about  that  ere  young 
shark!"  replied  Wagstaff,  "though  for  that  matter 
a  shark's  worse'n  poison." 

"  I  not  mean  poison — I  say  poisson— -fi s A." 


28         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

"  O,  poison  fish — yes,  I  know — you'll  find  plenty  of 
them  on  the  Bahamy  copper  banks.  I  always  gets  the 
cook  to  put  a  piece  of  silver  in  the  boilers,  when  we 
grub  on  fish  in  them  ere  parts." 

"  O,  mon  dieu  !  le  rashcalle  hash  bitez  mon  vum 
almos'  off!  Sacre,  vous  ingrat,  to  treatez  me  so  like, 
when  I  am  feed  you  wis  de  bon  diner  !  " 

My  attention  was  called  away  from  this  scene  of 
hilarity,  by  the  voice  of  the  watch  in  the  fore-top,  an- 
nouncing a  sail  in  sight. 

A  faint  indefinable  speck  could  be  seen  in  the  quar- 
ter designated,  fluttering  on  the  bosom  of  the  blue  sea 
like  a  drift  of  foam.  With  the  aid  of  the  glass  we  made 
it  out  to  be  the  topsail  of  a  schooner,  so  distant  that  her 
hull  and  lower  sails  were  below  the  brim  of  the  horizon. 
Her  canvas  had  probably  just  been  unloosed  to  the 
breeze,  which  was  directly  after  seen  roughening  the 
face  of  the  broad,  smooth  expanse  as  it  swept  down  to- 
ward us. 

"  That  glass,  Mr.  Waters — she  is  standing  toward 
us,  and  by  the  gods  of  war !  the  cut  of  her  narrow  fly- 
ing royal,  looks  marvellously  like  that  of  our  friend, 
the  Sea-Sprite !  "  said  the  captain,  while  the  blood 
flashed  over  his  bald  forehead,  like '  heat  lightning '  over 
a  summer  cloud  ;  "  Mr.  Hackinsack,  see  that  every 
thing  is  ready  for  a  chase." 

The  broad  sails  were  unloosed  and  sheeted  close 
home.  Directly  the  wind  was  with  us,  and  we  were 
bowling  along  under  a  press  of  canvas. 

"  Now,  quartermaster,  look  to  your  sails  as  closely, 
as  you  would  watch  one  seeking  your  life."  Another 
squint  through  the  glass.  "  Ha !  they  have  suspected 
us,  and  are  standing  in  toward  the  land,  jam  on  the 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DART.  29 

wind  ; — let  them  look  to  it  sharply ;  it  must  be  a  fleet 
pair  of  heels  that  can  keep  pace  with  the  Dart, — though 
to  say  the  least  of  yonder  cruiser,  she  is  no  laggard  !  " 

After  pacing  the  deck  some  ten  minutes,  he  again 
hove  short  and  lifted  the  glass  to  his  eye. 

"  By  heavens !  the  little  witch  still  holds  her  way 
with  us ! — Have  the  skysail  set,  and  rig  out  the  top- 
gallant-studd'n'sail !  " 

Every  one  on  board  was  now  eager  in  the  chase.  The 
orders  were  obeyed  almost  as  soon  as  given.  Our 
proud  vessel,  under  the  press  of  sail,  absolutely  flew 
over  the  water,  haughtily  tossing  the  rampant  surges 
from  her  sides,  while  her  bows  were  buried  in  a  roaring 
and  swirling  sheet  of  foam,  and  a  broad  band  of  snow 

O  ' 

stretched  far  over  the  dark  blue  waste  astern,  showing 
a  wake  as  strait  as  an  arrow.  She  was  careened  down 
to  the  breeze,  so  that  her  lower  studd'n'sail-boom  every 
moment  dashed  a  cloud  of  spray  from  tho  romping 
billows,  and  her  lee  rail  was  at  times  under  water.  Her 
masts  curved  and  whiffled  beneath  the  immense  piles  of 
canvas,  like  a  stringed  bow. 

"  She  walks  the  waters  bravely,"  said  the  captain, 
casting  a  glance  of  exultation  at  the  distended  sails  and 
bending  spars,  and  then  at  our  arrowy  wake. — "  But, 
by  Jupiter,  the  chase  still  almost  holds  her  way  with  us. 
We  need  more  sail  aft.  Bear  a  hand,  my  men,  and 
run  up  the  ringtail." 

"  That  will  answer, — a  dolphin  would  have  a  sweat 
to  beat  us  in  this  trim  !" 

"  Well,  Mr  Percy,  is  yonder  dasher  the  craft  that 
pillaged  your  ship,  and  sent  you  cruising  about  the 
ocean  in  that  bit  of  a  cockle-shell,  think  you  1 " 

"  That  is  the  pirate  schooner — I  cannot  mistake  her," 


30          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

replied  Percy,  who  stood  with  his  flashing  eyes  rivetted 
on  the  vessel,  and  his  fingers  impatiently  working  about 
the  hilt  of  his  cutlass,  while  his  brow  was  darkened 
with  an  intense  desire  of  revenge. 

Three  hours  passed,  and  we  had  gained  within  a 
league  of  the  noble  looking  craft.  She  was  heeled 
down  to  the  breeze,  so  that  owing  to  the  '  bagging'  of 
her  lower  sails,  her  hull  was  almost  hidden  from  sight. 
Like  a  snowy  cloud,  she  darted  along  the  revelling  wa- 
ters, the  sunbeams  basking  on  her  wide-spread  wings, 
and  the  sprightly  billows  flashing  and  surging  around 
her  bows.  Never  saw  I  an  object  more  beautiful. 

The  land  was  now  fully  in  sight — a  stern  and  rock- 
bound  coast,  against  which  the  breakers  dashed  with 
maddening  violence,  and  for  half  a  mile  from  the  shore, 
the  water  was  one  conflicting  waste  of  snowy  surf  and 
billow.  No  signs  of  inhabitants,  on  either  hand,  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  view,  were  discernible.  The  long 

range  of  stern,  solitary  mountains  arose  from  the  waves, 
and  towered  away  till  lost  in  the  clouds.  Their  sides, 
save  where  some  splintered  cliff  lifted  its  gray  peaks  in 
the  day,  were  clothed  with  thick  forests,  among  which 
the  tufted  palm  and  wild  cinnamon  stood  up  conspicu- 
ously, like  sentinels  looking  afar  over  the  wide  waste 
of  blue.  Here  and  there  a  torrent  could  be  traced, 
leaping  from  crag  to  clifF,  seeming,  as  it  blazed  in  the 
fierce  sun-light,  to  run  liquid  fire  ;  and  gorgeous  masses 
of  wild  creepers  and  tangled  undergrowth  hung  down 
over  the  embattled  heights,  swaying  and  flaunting  in 
the  gale,  like  the  banners  and  streamers  of  an  encamp- 
ed army. 

Not  the  slightest  chance  for  harbor  or  anchorage 
could  be  discovered  along  the  whole  iron-bound  coast, 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DART.  31 

yet  the  gallant  little  Sea-sprite  held  steadily  on  her 
course,  steering  broad  for  the  base  of  the  mountains. 

"  Why,  in  the  name  of  madness,  is  the  fellow  driving 
in  among  the  breakers  1 "  muttered  our  captain  ; — 
"  Thinks  he  to  escape  by  running  into  danger  1  By 
Mars,  and  if  I  mistake  not,  he  shall  have  peril  to  his 
heart's  content,  ere  nightfall !  " 

But  fate  willed  that  we  should  be  disappointed  ;  for 
just  as  every  thing  had  been  arranged  to  treat  the  buca- 
neer  with  a  fist  full  of  grape  and  canister,  one  of  those 
sudden  tempests,  so  common  to  the  West  Indies  in  the 
autumn  months,  was  upon  us.  A  vast,  black,  conglom- 
erated volume  of  vapor  swung  against  the  mountain 
summits,  and  curled  heavily  down  over  the  cliffs.  Brill- 
iant scintillations  were  darting  from  its  shadowy  borders, 
and  the  zigzag  lightnings  were  playing  about  it,  and 
licking  its  ragged  folds  like  the  tongues  of  an  evil 
spirit !  Suddenly  it  burst  asunder,  and  a  burning 
gleam — a  wide  conflagration,  as  if  the  very  earth  had 
exploded — flashed  over  the  hills,  accompanied  with  a 
peal  of  thunder  that  made  the  broad  ocean  tremble, 
and  our  deck  quiver  under  us,  like  a  harpooned  gram- 
pus in  his  death  gasp  !  The  electric  fluid  upheaved 
and  hurled  to  fragments  an  immense  peak  near  the 
summit  of  the  mountains,  and  huge  masses  of  rock, 
with  thunderous  din,  and  amid  clouds  of  dust,  smoke 
and  fire,  came  bounding  and  racing  down  from  crag  to 
crag,  uprooting  the  tall  cedars,  and  dashing  to  splinters 
the  firm  iron-wood  trees,  as  though  they  had  been  but 
reeds — sweeping  a  wide  path  of  ruin  through  the  thick 
forests,  and  shivering  to  atoms  and  dust  the  loose  rocks 
that  obstructed  their  career,  till,  with  a  whirring  bound, 
they  plunged  from  a  beetling  cliff  into  the  sea,  causing 


32          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

the  tortured  water  to  send  up  a  cloud  of  mist  and  spray. 
All  on  board  were  struck  aghast  at  the  blinding  bril- 
liancy of  the  flash  and  its  terrible  effects. 

We  were  aroused  to  a  sense  of  our  situation,  by  the 
clear,  sonorous  voice  of  Satan  West,  whom  nothing 
pertaining  to  earth  could  daunt,  calling  all  hands  to 
take  in  sail. 

Instantly  the  trade-wind  ceased,  and  a  fearful,  death- 
like silence  ensued.  This  was  of  short  duration  ;  hardly* 
were  our  sails  stowed  close,  when  we  saw  the  trees  on 
shore  drawn  upwards,  twisted  off  and  rent  to  pieces, 
while  a  dense  mass  of  leaves  and  broken  branches 
whirled  over  the  land  ;  and  a  wild,  deep,  wailing  sound, 
as  of  rushing  wings,  filled  the  air,  foretelling  the  onset 
of  the  whirlwind. 

"  The  hurricane  is  upon  us  ! — helm  hard  awcathcr! " 
thundered  the  captain. 

But  the  Dart  was  already  lying  on  her  beam-ends, 
heaving,  groaning  and  quivering  throughout  every 
timber,  in  the  fierce  embrace  of  the  tremendous  blast ! 
After  its  first  overpowering  shock,  however,  the  gallant 
craft  slowly  recovered,  and  by  dint  of  the  strenuous 
exertions  of  our  men,  she  was  got  before  the  gale. 
Away  she  sprang,  like  a  frighted  thing,  over  the  tor- 
mented and  whitening  surges,  completely  shrouded  in 
foam  and  spray.  A  dense  cloud,  murky  as  midnight, 
spread  over  the  face  of  the  heavens,  where  a  moment 
before,  naught  met  the  gazer's  eye,  save  the  fleecy 
mackerel-clouds,  drifting  afar  through  its  cerulean  halls. 
The  blue  lightnings  gleamed,  the  thunder  boomed  and 
rattled,  the  black  billows  shook  their  flashing  manes,  the 
whole  firmament  was  in  an  uproar  ;  and  amid  the  wild 
rout,  our  little  Dart,  as  a  dry  leaf  in  the  autumn  winds, 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DART.  33 

was  borne  about,  a  very  plaything  in  the  eddying  whirls 
of  the  frantic  elements. 

The  tempest  was  as  short  lived  as  it  was  sudden, 
and,  as  the  schooner  had  sustained  no  material  injury, 
directly  after  it  had  abated  she  was  under  sail  again. 
When  the  rain  cleared  up  in  shore,  every  eye  sought 
eagerly  for  the  pirate  craft. 
She  had  vanished ! 

Nothing  met  our  view  but  the  tossing  and  tumbling 
surges,  and  the  breaker-beaten  coast.  If  ever  old  Sa- 
tan West  was  taken  aback,  it  was  then.  His  brow 
darkened,  and  a  shadow  of  unutterable  disappointment 
passed  over  his  countenance. 

"  Gone  ! — By  all  that  is  mysterious  and  wonderful — 
gone  !  "  he  muttered  to  himself, — "  escaped  from  my 
very  grasp !  Can  there  be  truth  in  the  wild  tales  told 
of  her  1  No,  no  ! — idiot  to  harbor  the  thought  for  a 
moment — she  has  foundered  ! " 

But  this  was  hardly  probable,  as  not  the  slightest 
vestige  of  her  remained  about  the  spot. 

Poor  Percy,  too,  was  the  picture  of  despair.  His 
hat  had  been  blown  away  by  the  hurricane  ;  and  his 
hair  tossed  rudely  in  the  wind,  as  he  stood  in  the  main- 
chains,  gazing  with  the  wildness  of  a  maniac  over  the 
uproarous  waters. 

"  The  lovers  of  the  marvelous  would  here  find 
enough  to  fatten  upon,  I  ween,"  said  Dacres,  composedly 
helping  himself  to  a  quid  of  tobacco.  "  What  think  you 
is  to  come  next  1  for  I  hardly  think  the  play  ends  with 
actors  and  all  being  spirited  away  in  a  thunder  gust !" 

I  was  interrupted  in  my  reply  by  the  energetic  ex- 
clamations of  the  captain,  who  had  been  gazing  sea- 
ward, over  the  quarter-rail. 
4 


34          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

"  Yes,  by  all  the  imps  in  purgatory,  it  is  that  devil- 
leagued  pirate,"  burst  from  bis  lips  ;  and  at  the  same 
moment  the  cry  of  Sail  O  !  was  heard  from  the  for- 
ward watch. 

A  long-sparred  vessel  could  be  seen,  relieved  against 
the  black  bank  of  clouds,  that  were  crowding  down  the 
horizon.  Surprise  was  imaged  on  every  countenance, 
and  when  the  order  was  passed  to  crowd  on  all  sail  in 
pursuit,  a  murmur  of  disapprobation  run  through  the 
whole  crew.  However,  such  was  their  respect  for  the 
regulations  of  the  service,  and  so  great  their  dread  of 
old  Satan  West,  that  no  one  dared  demur  openly. 
Again  the  Dart  was  bounding  over  the  waves  in  pursuit 
of  the  stranger,  which  had  confirmed  our  suspicions  as 
to  her  character,  by  hoisting  all  sail  and  endeavoring  to 
escape  us*. 

But  here  likewise  we  were  disappointed.  She  prov- 
ed to  be  a  Baltimore  clipper,  and  had  endeavored  to 
run  away  from  us,  taking  us  for  the  same  craft  we  had 
supposed  her  to  be. 

After  parting  from  the  Baltimorean,  we  ran  in  ;  and 
as  the  evening  fell,  anchored  under  the  land,  sheltered 
from  the  waves  by  a  little  rocky  promontory.  It  was  my 
turn  to  take  the  evening  watch.  Our  wearied  crew  were 
soon  lost  in  sleep,  and  all  was  hushed  into  repose,  if  I 
except  the  shrill,  rasping  voices  of  the  green  lizards, 
the  buzzing  and  humming  of  the  numerous  insects  on 
shore,  and  the  occasional,  long-drawn  creak,  creak  of 
the  cable,  as  the  schooner  swung  at  her  anchor.  The 
evening  was  mild  and  beautiful.  The  moon,  attended 
by  one  bright,  beautiful  planet,  was  on  her  wonted 
round  through  the  heavens,  and  the  far  expanse  of 
ocean,  reflecting  her  effulgence,  seemed  to  roll  in  bil- 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DART.  35 

lows  of  molten  silver  beneath  the  gentle  night-wind, 
which  swept  from  the  land,  fragrant  with  the  breath  of 
wild-flowers  and  spicy  shrubs. 

Little  Ponto,  the  royal  reefer,  lay  on  a  gun  carriage 
near  me.  This  boy,  whom,  when  on  a  former  cruise, 
I  had  rescued  from  a  Turkish  Trader,  was  a  favorite 
with  all  on  board.  Although,  in  person,  effeminate  and 
beautiful  as  a  girl,  and  possessing  the  strong  affections 
of  the  weaker  sex,  he  still  was  not  wanting  in  that  high 
courage  and  energy  which  constitutes  the  pride  of 
manhood.  He  was  an  orphan,  and  with  the  exception 
of  a  sister  and  aunt,  who  were  living  together  in  En- 
gland, there  was  not,  in  the  wide  world,  one  being  with 
whom  he  could  claim  relationship.  When  very  young, 
he  had  been  entrusted  to  the  charge  of  the  friendly 
captain  of  a  merchant  ship,  bound  to  Smyrna,  for  the 
purpose  of  improving  his  health.  But  the  vessel  never 
reached  her  destined  port.  She  was  captured  by  an 
Algerine  rover,  and  the  boy  made  prisoner.  It  was 
from  the  worst  of  slavery  that  I  had  rescued  him,  and 
ever  after  the  occurrence  his  gratitude  toward  me  knew 
no  bounds.  He  appeared  to  be  contented  and  happy 
in  his  present  situation,  save  when  his  thoughts  revert- 
ed to  his  lone  sister.  Then  the  tears  would  spring  into 
his  eyes,  and  he  would  talk  to  me  of  her  beauty  and 
goodness,  till  I  was  almost  in  love  with  the  pure  being 
which  his  glowing  descriptions  had  conjured  to  my 
mind.  I  loved  that  boy  as  a  brother,  and  he  returned 
my  affection  with  a  fervor,  equalling  that  of  a  trusting 
woman. 

As  I  leaned  against  the  companion-way,  absorbed  in 
pleasant  dreams  of  my  far  home,  a  touch  on  the  shoul- 
der aroused  me.  I  turned  and  Percy  stood  by  my 


36          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

side.  The  beauty  of  the  evening  had  soothed  his  wild 
and  agitated  feelings.  He  spoke  of  his  wife  with  touch- 
ing regret,  as  if  certain  that  she  was  lost  to  him  forever. 
For  nearly  an  hour  he  stood  gazing  on  the  moon's 
bright  attendant,  as  if  he  fancied  it  her  home. 

At  length  he  disappeared  below,  and  again  Ponto, 
who  seemed  to  be  wrapped  in  a  deep  rcvery,  was  my 
only  companion.  We  had  remained  several  minutes 
in  silence,  when  suddenly,  as  if  it  had  dropped  from 
the  clouds,  a  female  form  appeared  far  above  us,  on  a 
precipitous  bluff  that  leaned  out  over  the  deep,  on  which 
the  solitary  moonlight  slept  in  unobstructed  brightness. 
The  form  advanced  so  near  the  brink  of  the  fearful 
crag,  that  we  could  even  distinguish  the  color  of  her 
drapery  as  it  fluttered  in  the  wind.  By  the  motion  of 
her  arms  she  seemed  beckoning  us  on  shore  ;  then,  as 
if  despairing  to  attract  our  attention,  she  looked  fear- 
fully about,  and  the  next  moment  a  strain  of  exquisite 
melody  came  floating  down  to  us,  like  a  voice  from 
heaven.  We  remained  breathless,  and  could  almost 
distinguish  the  words. 

The  strain  terminated  in  a  startling  cry,  and  with  a 
frantic  gesture  the  figure  tore  a  crimson  scarf  from  her 
neck,  and  shook  it  wildly  on  the  winds ;  at  the  same 
moment  the  dark  form  of  a  man  leaped  out  on  the 
cliff.  There  was  a  short  struggle,  with  reiterated 
shrieks  of  '  help  !  help  !  help  ! '  in  a  voice  of  agony, 
and  all  disappeared  in  the  deep  shadow  of  another  rock. 

Ponto,  who  at  the  first  burst  of  the  song,  had  started 
up  and  grasped  my  arm  with  a  degree  of  wild  energy 
I  had  never  witnessed  in  him  before,  now  suddenly 
released  his  hold,  and  with  a  single  bound  plunged  into 
the  sea.  So  lost  was  I  in  amazement  at  the  whole 


THE    CRUISE    OF    THE    DART.  37 

scene,  that  for  a  moment  I  remained  undecided  what 
course  to  pursue  ;  then,  not  wishing  to  alarm  the  ship, 
I  ordered  Waters,  the  midshipman  of  the  watch,  to 
jump  into  the  boat  with  a  few  of  the  men,  and  pull 
after  him. 

The  head  of  my  little  favorite  soon  became  visible 
in  the  moonlight.  With  a  vigorous  arm  he  struck  out 
for  the  shore,  and  was  immediately  hid  in  the  deep 
shadow  of  its  mural  cliffs.  A  moment,  and  I  again 
saw  him  on  the  beetling  rocks,  whence  the  female  had 
just  disappeared  ;  then  he,  too,  was  lost  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

Waters,  after  being  absent  in  the  boat  about  half  an 
Jiour,  returned  without  having  discovered  the  least  sign 
of  the  fugitive.  Hour  after  hour  I  awaited  the  return 
of  my  adventurous  boy,  filled  with  painful  anxiety. 

As  the  night  deepened,  the  clouds,  which  during  the 
<lay  had  slumbered  on  the  mountain  battlements,  as  if 
held  in  awe  by  the  majesty  of  the  burning  sun,  rolled 
slowly  down  the  steeps  and  gradually  spread  out  on  the 
sea,  enveloping  us  in  their  humid  embrace.  A  denser 
mist  I  never  saw ;  my  thin  clothing  was  soon  wet 
through  and  clinging  to  me  like  steel  to  a  magnet,  and 
we  were  completely  lost  in  darkness.  As  I  paced  the 
deck,  not  willing  to  go  below  while  my  young  favorite 
was  in  peril,  Waters  tapped  me  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Did  you  notice  any  thing  then,  Mr.  Hackinsack  T 
I  thought  I  heard  a  splash  in  the  water,  like  the  dip  of 
an  oar." 

"  Some  fish,  I  suppose,  Waters." 

"  I  think  not,  Sir ;  besides,  just  now  I  saw  a  dark 
object  gliding  slowly  across  our  bow  in  the  mist,  which 
I  then  took  for  a  drifting  log." 
4* 


38          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

I  walked  round  the  deck  and  peered  into  the  fog  on 
every  side,  but  could  discover  nothing.  I  listened ;  all 
was  silent  save  the  tweet,  tweet,  of  the  lizards  and  the 
roar  of  the  surf,  as  it  beat  on  the  rocks  astern.  Pre- 
sently old  Benjemin  Ramrod,  the  gunner,  came  aft. 

"  I  wish  this  infernal  fog  would  clear  up  !  "  said  he, 
"  for  the  last  half  hour,  I  have  heard  strange  noises 
about  us  !  I  am  much  mistaken,  or  we  are  surrounded 
by  enemies  of  some  sort  or  other.  When  that  shining 
apparition  arose  from  the  bluff  there,  and  began  to 
beckon  to  us,  I  said  to  myself,  some  accident  is  going 
to  happen  before  many  hours,  and  you  see  if  my  pro'- 
nostics  ar'n't  true.  Minded  you  how,  by  her  sweet 
voice,  she  lured  that  poor  boy,  Ponto,  overboard  1 — and 
even  I,  who  may  say  I've  had  some  experience  in  such 
matters,  began  to  feel  a  queerish  sensation,  as  I  harken- 
ed  to  her  witchery.  Many  a  poor  sailor  has  lost  his 
life  by  listening  to  their  lonesome-like  songs.  I  re- 
member once  when  I  was  on  the  coast  of  Africa,  in  a 
gold-dust  and  ivory  trader,  we  heard  the  water-wraiths 
and  mermaids  singing  to  each  other  all  night  long, 
and  the  very  next  day  our  ship  was  driven  upon  the 
rocks  in  a  white  squall,  and  wrecked,  and  only  myself 
and  a  Congo  nigger  escaped  alive,  out  of  a  crew  of 
twenty-three  ! — It  strikes  me,  too,"  he  continued,  after 
listening  a  moment,  "  that  we  shall  have  a  storm  before 
morning ;  the  fog  seems  to  be  brushing  by  us,  and  the 
noise  of  the  breakers  on  shore  grows  terribly  loud.  I 
would  give  all  the  prize-money  I  ever  gained  to  be  out 
of  the  place,  with  good  sea-room,  a  flowing  sheet,  and 
our  bows  turned  toward  home — no  good  ever  came  of 
fighting  these  pirate  imps. — Heaven  help  us !  what  is 
that  1 "  he  exclaimed  with  a  start,  as  a  tall,  white  form 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DART.  39 

shot  up,  a  few  rods  under  our  stern,  seen  but  dimly 
through  the  fog. 

The  fact  flashed  upon  me  at  once  ;  our  cable  had 
been  cut ;  it  was  the  spray  of  the  breakers  rebounding 
from  the  shore.  The  best  bower  anchor  was  instantly 
let  go,  which  brought  us  up  ;  not  however  till  we  had 
drifted  within  a  cable's  length  of  the  breakers,  which 
ramped  and  roared  all  the  night  with  maddening  vio- 
lence, as  if  eager  to  engulf  us.  The  alarm  was  given, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  every  thing  was  prepared  for 
any  emergency  that  might  occur. 

I  ordered  Ramrod  to  clap  a  charge  of  grape  into  one 
of  the  bow-chasers  and  let  drive  at  the  first  object  that 
came  in  sight.  As  I  gave  the  order  the  dip  of  oars 
could  be  plainly  distinguished,  receding  from  our  bows. 
Benjamin  did  not  wait  to  see  the  marauders,  but  fired 
in  the  direction  of  the  sound.  The  fog  was  swept 
away  before  the  mouth  of  the  gun,  to  some  distance, 
and  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  boat  filled  with  men.  A 
deep  groan  told  that  the  gun  had  been  rightly  directed. 

There  was  now  no  doubt  that  we  were  surrounded 
by  enemies.  It  was  only  by  the  foreboding  watchful- 
ness of  the  gunner  that  we  were  prevented  from  going 
ashore,  where,  doubtless,  the  pirates  expected  to  have 
obtained  an  easy  victory  over  us. 

About  ten  minutes  after  this  incident  I  was  startled 
by  the  faint  voice  of  Ponto,  hailing  me  from  under  the 
schooner's  side.  I  joyfully  lowered  the  man-ropes,  and 
immediately  had  the  adventurous  boy  beside  me,  on  the 
quarter-deck.  He  grasped  my  hand,  and  I  felt  him 
tremble  all  over  with  eagerness. 

"  You  heard  that  song ;  the  voice  was  that  of  my 
own  sister !  That  shriek,  too,  was  hers ;  do  you  won- 


40          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

Her  that  I  lcapc'1  overboard  1  I  scarcely  know  how  ] 
reached  the  rock  from  which  she  was  dragged.  1 
climbed  up  and  up,  in  the  direction  1  supposed  they 
must  have  taken,  until  T  gained  the  very  summit  of  one 
of  the  hills.  I  looked  down,  and  as  it  were  floating  in 
the  haze,  many  feet  below  me,  saw  the  face  of  a  rock 
reddened  by  the  blaze  of  a  fire  opposite.  I  clambered 
from  cliff  to  cliff,  clinging  to  the  branches  of  the  trees, 
and  letting  myself  down  by  the  mountain  creepers  that 
hung  like  thick  drapery  over  the  descent,  till  all  at 
once  I  dropped  over  the  very  mouth  of  a  deep  cavern. 
A  massy  vine  fell  in  heavy  festoons  down  over  the 
rugged  pillars  that  formed  its  portal.  Securing  a  foot- 
hold among  its  tendrils,  concealed  by  its  luxuriant  fo- 
liage, I  bent  over  and  looked  in.  A  large  party  of 
fierce-looking  men,  with  pistols  in  their  belts  and  cut- 
lasses lying  by  them,  were  seated  round  a  rude  table, 
feasting  and  making  merry  over  their  wine  beakers.  I 
paid  little  attention  to  them,  for  against  the  rough  wall 
was  an  old  woman,  and  leaning  upon  her — as  I  live,  it 
is  true — was  my  own,  my  beautiful  sister,  she  whom  I 
had  left  in  England  !  I  thought  my  heart  would  have 
choked  me,  as  I  looked  upon  her  pale,  sorrowful  faco, 
and  heard  her  low  sobs.  In  my  tremor  the  vine  shock  ; 
some  loose  stones  were  started,  and  went  clattering 
down  into  the  very  mouth  of  the  cavern.  Two  of  the 
pirates  sprang  up,  and  seizing  a  flaming  brand,  rushed 
out.  The  red  blaze  flashed  over  her  face  as  they 
passed,  and  I  heard  them  threaten  her  with  a  terrible 
fate,  if  they  were  discovered  through  her  means.  At 
the  first  start  of  the  rocks  I  drew  back  into  the  vines, 
where  I  remained  breathless  and  still,  while  they  scan- 
ned the  recesses  of  the  crag.  '  We  were  mistaken, 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DART.  41 

Jacopo,'  at  length  said  one  of  them,  '  it  was  probably  a 
guana,  drawn  hither  by  the  fire.'  Satisfied  that  no  one 
was  near,  they  returned  to  their  comrades,  who  ridi- 
culed them  for  their  temerity. 

"  Again  I  listened,  and  heard  them  plan  to  cut  the 
cable  of  the  Dart,  and  run  her  into  the  breakers.  If 
they  failed  in  this  attempt,  they  were  to  haul  the  Sea- 
Sprite  out  of  her  hiding  place  and  leave  the  coast, 
trusting,  with  the  aid  of  the  fresh  land-breeze,  to  get 
beyond  pursuit  before  day-break. — The  mist  had  come 
on,  and  knowing  it  impossible  to  reach  the  Dart  over 
the  rough  precipices  in  time  to  give  you  warning,  I  re- 
mained in  my  concealment,  undecided  what  course  to 
pursue,  when  I  saw  a  party  of  the  pirates  leave  the 
cavern  to  go  to  their  boats.  Perceiving  beneath  me, 
on  the  bough  of  a  wild  tamarind,  sundry  articles  of 
clothing,  similar  to  those  worn  by  the  bucaneers,  a  bold 
thought  occurred  to  me.  When  they  had  gone  beyond 
the  light  from  the  cave,  I  cautiously  lowered  myself 
down,  and  drawing  on  a  jacket  and  one  of  the  caps, 
jumped  with  them  into  the  boat,  no  one  in  the  darkness 
suspecting  me. 

"  To  appearance  we  were  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
mountains.  I  am  certain  that  rocks  and  foliage  were 
piled  up  all  around  us. — After  a  short  row  we  passed 
through  what  seemed  to  be  a  deep  chasm,  between 
two  crags,  which  must  have  been  very  high,  as  the 
darkness  between  them  was  almost  palpable,  and  in  a 
few  moments  we  were  riding  over  the  long  swell  of  the 
open  sea.  We  groped  about  in  the  mist  for  some  time, 
till  the  position  of  the  Dart  was  ascertained  by  the 
chafing  noise  of  one  of  her  booms,  when,  gliding  softly 
up,  with  their  sharp  knives  they  cut  her  cable,  and  she 


4^          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

began  to  drift  astern.  The  strictest  silence  was  en- 
joined upon  us  all,  so  that  had  1  moved  or  made  the 
least  noise,  as  1  had  intended,  my  life  had  been  the 
forfeit.  However,  1  had  just  made  up  my  mind  to  run 
all  hazards,  when  the  flame  of  the  gun  gleamed  through 
the  fog.  One  of  the  pirates  fell  dead  in  the  bottom  of 
the  boat,  and  in  the  hurried  stir  which  this  produced.  I 
contrived  to  slip  into  the  water. 

"  Now  let  me  conjure  you  to  take  measures  for  the 
rescue  of  my  poor  sister.  How  she  came  into  their 
power  is  a  mystery.  But  my  heart  will  break  if  she  is 
not  soon  freed  from  these  lawless  men." 

1  informed  the  captain  of  Ponto's  discovery,  but  he 
saw  at  once  that  it  would  be  madness  to  attempt  any 
thing  in  our  present  situation,  with  sunken  rocks  around 
us,  the  breakers  astern,  and  a  thick  mist  wrapping  all 
in  obscurity. 

At  last,  after  a  night  of  the  most  wearisome  watch- 
ing, the  day  dawned,  and  the  mists  returned  to  their 
mountain  fastnesses.  Burning  for  a  brush  with  the 
desperadoes,  we  towed  the  Dart  out  of  her  critical 
situation  and  got  her  under  sail.  The  launch  and  cut- 
ter were  ordered  out,  but  here  we  were  at  fault.  The 
morning  sunlight  slept  calmly  on  the  forest  clad  ridges 
and  gray  cliffs,  and  every  irregularity  and  indentation 
of  the  shore  were  strongly  shadowed  forth ;  but  not  the 
least  sign  of  harbor  or  anchorage  could  be  seen,  except 
under  the  rocky  promontory  we  had  just  left,  and  every 
thing  looked  as  forsaken  and  solitary  as  a  creation's 
birth.  However,  not  doubting  that  we  should  be  able 
to  sift  the  mystery,  the  boats  put  off,  with  full  and  well- 
armed  crews,  and  on  nearing  the  shore  discovered  a 
narrow  inlet,  that  wound  in  between  the  two  lofty  cliffs, 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DART.  43 

the  one  projecting  out  with  a  magnificent  curve,  so  as 
entirely  to  conceal  the  channel  until  we  approached 
within  a  few  rods  of  the  shore. 

"  We've  got  on  the  right  scent  of  the  old  fox  now, 
I  think,"  said  Waters. 

"  Speak  low,  gentlemen;  if  discovered  we  may  meet 
with  a  reception  here  not  altogether  so  agreeable — I 
don't  like  the  appearance  of  those  grave  looking  fel- 
lows, yonder,"  said  Dacres,  pointing  to  four  cannon 
mounted  on  a  low  parapet,  with  their  muzzles  bearing 
directly  toward  us. 

"  W'hy,  the  place  is  as  silent  as  a  grave-yard,"  mut- 
tered the  old  cockswain  of  the  cutter. 

We  advanced  softly  up  the  inlet,  and  found  it  to 
branch  out  into  a  broad  basin.  Here  was  explained 
the  mystery  of  the  Sea-Sprite's  sudden  disappearance  ; 
this  was  the  Pirate's  Retreat,  and  from  their  escaping 
hither  and  into  similar  resorts  known  only  to  them- 
selves, arose  the  many  wild  stories  that  were  abroad 
respecting  their  supernatural  prowess.  Fifty  well  arm- 
ed men  might  have  defended  the  place  against  five 
hundred  assailants,  as  there  was  only  one  point,  the 
inlet,  susceptible  of  an  attack.  The  entrance  was  not 
more  than  thirty  feet  in  width — only  sufficient  for  one 
vessel  to  enter  at  a  time ;  but  the  water  was  bold  and 
deep,  with  a  sandy  bottom.  An  enormous  cavern 
yawned  at  the  farther  extremity  of  the  basin,  which 
Ponto  immediately  recognized  as  that  where  the  pirates 
held  their  revel  the  previous  night.  But  now  the  place 
was  evidently  deserted ;  the  Sea-Sprite  had  made  her 
escape. 

The  crew  of  the  barge  were  despatched  on  shore  to 
explore  the  premises,  while  we,  as  a  corps- de-reserve, 


44          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

lay  on  our  oars,  with  fire-arms  loaded,  ready  for  any 
emergency.  While  waiting  I  had  an  opportunity  of 
surveying  the  magnificent  scene  around  me.  We  lay 
in  the  deep  shadow  of  a  beetling  precipice  of  such  im- 
mense altitude,  that  the  snow-white  morning  clouds,  as 
they  floated  onward,  like  messengers  from  heaven, 
swept  its  summit.  Thousands  of  gray  sea-birds  were 
sailing  around  their  eyries,  along  its  dark  craggy  sides 
far  above  us,  while  its  hollow  recesses  reverberated 
their  shrill  cries,  till  to  our  ears  they  sounded  like  one 
continued  scream.  The  cliffs  all  around  were  tumbled 
about  in  the  most  chaotic  confusion,  as  if  they  had  been 
upheaved  by  some  tremendous  throe  of  nature.  Stint- 
ed forest  trees  and  brush  wood,  with  here  and  there  a 
wild  locust  or  banana,  had  gained  a  footing  in  the 
seams  and  fissures  of  the  crags,  and  thick  masses  of 
the  lusty  mountain  creepers,  intertwined  with  wild 
flowering  jessamin  and  grcnadilla,  fell  in  gorgeous 
festoons  down  the  embattled  heights,  draping  their 
rough  projections  in  robes  of  the  most  magnificent 
woof.  Nearly  opposite  was  a  yawning  ravine,  filled 
with  myriads  of  huge,  shattered  trees,  ragged  stumps, 
loose  stones  and  gravel,  which  probably  had  been 
swept  from  the  mountains,  by  the  foaming  torrents  that 
rush  down  to  the  sea  in  the  rainy  months.  The  deso- 
lation of  this  scene  was  in  a  measure  relieved  by  the 
quick  springing  vegetation  that  had  found  sustenance 
among  the  decayed  trunks,  and  in  the  black  earth  that 
still  adhered  to  the  matted  roots  ;  so  that  green  foliage, 
and  wild  flowers  of  the  most  brilliant  dies  in  sumptuous 
profusion,  were  waving  and  nodding  over  prostrate 
trees,  which  perchance  a  year  before,  had  stood  up  in 
the  pride  of  primeval  lustihood,  on  the  mountain  ridges. 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DART.  45 

Further  back,  beyond  this  gorge,  the  sloping  steeps 
were  clothed  with  dark  waving  forests,  stretching  up 
their  sides,  till  they  faded  into  the  blue  haze  resting  on 
the  mountain  summits.  The  freshness  of  early  day 
had  not  yet  been  dissipated.  Among  the  undergrowth 
and  brakes,  on  the  tips  of  the  tall,  sweeping  guinea 
grass,  and  in  the  cups  of  the  wild  flowers,  the  pure 
dews  hung  in  glittering  globules,  sparkling  with  bril- 
liant prismatic  tints,  as  they  flashed  back  the  glances 
of  the  rising  sun.  Calmness  and  repose  reigned  over 
the  unequalled  sublimities  of  the  place  ;  and  although 
the  billows  were  madly  beating  and  roaring  against  the 
outer  base  of  the  crescent-like  promontory,  within,  the 
water  was  silent  and  unruffled  by  a  breath,  reflecting 
in  its  depths  the  wild  and  gorgeous  array  of  rock  and 
verdure  around,  almost  as  unwavering  as  reality  itself; 
and  had  it  not  been  for  the  tiny  wavelets  that  rippled 
up  a  small  sandy  beach,  adorning  the  water's  edge 
with  a  narrow  frill  of  foam,  its  likeness  to  a  broad  sheet 
of  glass  had  been  perfect. 

At  length,  after  the  premises  had  been  thoroughly 
reconnoitered,  the  crew  of  the  cutter  were  permitted  to 
go  on  shore.  They  were  soon  revelling  amidst  the 
costly  merchandize  and  the  luxuries,  with  which  the 
cavern  was  gorged. 

"  Holloa,  Price  ! "  said  Waters  to  a  fellow  mid,  as  he 
came  out  of  the  cave,  dragging  an  old  hag  of  a  woman 
after  him,  apparently  much  against  her  will ;  "  I've 
found  the  presiding  goddess  of  the  place.  Is  n't  she  a 
Venus  1 " 

"  Wenus  indeed  !  "  echoed  the  old  beldame,  "  take 
that,  young  madcap,  and  larn  better  how  to  treat  a 


46          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

lady ! "  administering  a  thwack  on  his  ear  that  sent 
him  staggering  a  rod  from  her. 

Waters  gathered  himself  together,  and  a  general 
laugh  took  place  at  his  expense. 

"  A  fair  representative  of  the  amorous  goddess — 
quite  liberal  with  her  love  pats  !  "  said  Price  in  a  tanta- 
lizing tone. 

"  Confound  the  old  hag,"  muttered  the  discomfited 
mid,  "if  it  were  not  a  waste  of  good  powder  and  ball, 
I'd  make  a  riddle  of  her  in  the  twinkling  of  a  grog-can  !" 

This  female  and  one  man,  found  wounded  and  lan- 
guishing on  his  pallet,  were  the  only  denizens  of  the 
place. 

"  Croesus  !  what  hav'nt  we  here  1 "  exclaimed  Price, 
glancing  over  the  medley  of  rich  merchandize  heaped 
together  in  one  of  the  apartments  of  the  huge  cavern  ; 
"  boxes  of  silks  and  satins,  sashes,  ribbons,  lace,  tor- 
toise shell ! — whew  ! — I  say,  Waters,  what  heathen  are 
these  pirates  to  let  such  a  profusion  of  pretty  gewgaws 
lay  here,  which  ought  to  be  setting  ofF  the  fairy  forms 
of  the  Spanish  lasses  !  Now  there's  as  handsome  a  piece 
of  trumpery  as  one  often  sees,"  tying  a  delicate  crim- 
son silk  manta  about  him — "  as  I'm  a  sinner  I'll  carry 
that  home  to  Nell  Gray  ! — Ha  !  Burgundy  wine  1 

Inspiring — divine 
Is  the  gush  of  bright  wine  ; 
'Tis  the  life,  'tis  the  breath  of  the  soul, 
'T  is  the— the— 

"  Odds  !  but  I  must  quicken  my  memory,  and  clear 
my  pipes  with  a  can  of  the  critter  to  get  into  the  spirit 
of  song ! " 

He  drew  a  beaker  from  the  cask  and  took  a  deep 
draught. 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DART.  47 

"  Capital,  by  Bacchus  ! "  he  exclaimed,  smacking  his 
lips, — "  Try  it,  Waters,  these  fellows  fare  like  princes." 

"  Bear  a  hand,  Mr.  Price,  and  don't  set  the  men  a 
bad  example,"  thundered  the  first  lieutenant,  who  had 
stationed  himself  as  a  sentinel  outside. 

In  the  meantime  the  men  had  not  been  idle.  The 
sight  of  such  a  profusion  of  riches,  all  at  their  own 
mercy,  had  turned  their  brains,  and  the  confusion  that 
prevailed  among  the  silks  and  finery  would  have  rivalled 
that  of  a  London  milliner's  shop  on  a  gala  day. 

But  the  voice  of  the  lieutenant,  as  if  by  magic,  re- 
stored them  to  order,  and  Waters  ordered  the  most 
costly  of  the  goods  to  be  carried  to  the  boats. 

"An  'ai'nt  it  Roary  McGran  'as  found  a  nest  o  'the 
shiners,"  exclaimed  a  son  of  Erin,  as  he  emerged,  cov- 
ered with  dirt,  from  a  small,  deep  cavity  at  the  inmost 
extremity  of  the  cavern,  dragging  after  him  a  large 
bag  of  doubloons, — "  'Ai'nt  them  the  beauties,  Mis- 
ther  Waters  1 — its  what  they're  as  plenty  there  as  pa- 
raites  in  a  parson's  cellar." 

Half  a  dozen  similar  bags  were  brought  to  light ; 
besides  which  more  than  a  score  of  boxes  containing 
rix  dollars,  and  a  great  many  parcels  of  coin  of  different 
nations,  silver  and  gold,  tied  up  in  old  pieces  of  canvas, 
were  discovered. 

"  Some  sport  in  sacking  such  a  fortress  as  this," 
observed  Price, — "  no  blood  and  plenty  of  booty  !  By 
Jove,  though,  what  a  confounded  pity  it  is  we  hav'nt  a 
ship  of  some  size,  that  we  might  load  her  with  these 
silken  goods  1  Our  share  of  the  prize  money  would 
be  a  fortune  to  us." 

While  the  men  were  ransacking  the  cavern,  I  had 
climbed  by  a  narrow  foot-path  to  the  top  of  a  lofty  bluff. 


48          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

A  small  telescope,  found  in  a  hollow  that  had  been 
worked  in  the  rock,  assured  me  that  this  served  as  a 
look-out  station.  It  commanded  a  wide  view  of  the 
surrounding  ocean,  now  tenanted  only  by  the  sun-beam 
and  solitude,  if  I  except  the  presence  of  the  Dart, 
which  sat  lilting  on  the  glittering  swell,  with  her  white 
wings  outspread,  like  a  huge  sea-bird  stretching  his 
pinions  for  flight. 

*  #  # 

The  boats  shoved  off,  loaded  gunwale  deep  with  gold 
and  silver,  ivory,  tortoise-shell  and  the  most  choice  of 
the  merchandise  found  in  the  cavern,  and  in  fifteen 
minutes  all  was  safely  secured  on  board  the  schooner. 
After  a  short  consultation  it  was  agreed  to  run  the 
Dart  into  the  Pirates'  Retreat,  and  there  await  the  re- 
turn of  the  Sea-Sprite,  deeming  that  the  bucuneers 
would  scarcely  be  long  absent  from  the  chief  deposito- 
ry of  their  treasures.  She  was  soon  safely  anchored 
in  the  basin.  A  lookout  was  stationed  at  the  mouth  of 
the  inlet,  while  Ponto  and  Percy  undertook,  with  the 
consent  of  the  captain,  the  task  of  watching  from  the 
cliff.  Waters  was  then  sent  with  a  party  of  the  men 
to  explore  the  cavern  more  thoroughly,  and  before  noon 
there  was  not  a  chink  nor  cranny  of  the  place,  which 
had  not  been  thrice  overhauled.  Immense  treasures, 
in  gold,  silver  and  jewelry,  were  brought  to  light. 

Toward  the  latter  part  of  the  afternoon,  Percy  gave 
the  signal  agreed  upon  for  an  approaching  vessel,  and 
directly  after  made  his  appearance  on  the  beach,  in- 
forming us  that  they  had  examined  her  carefully,  and 
that  there  could  be  no  mistaking  her — it  was  the  Sea- 
Sprite. 

"  Strange  !  "  said  the    captain  ;  "  I  knew  that  they 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DART.  49 

were  brave — fearless  to  desperation,  but  I  did  not  ex- 
pect to  see  them  show  such  fool-hardiness.  However, 
they  shall  meet  with  a  welcome  reception.  Mr.  Dacres, 
see  that  all  the  men  are  on  board,  and  have  things  put 
to  rights  for  a  brush.  If  I  mistake  not,  there  will  be 
desperate  work  ere  the  rascal  receives  his  deserts." 

In  a  few  minutes  every  thing  was  ready ;  the  boats 
were  got  out  forward,  and  the  Dart  was  towed  to  the 
mouth  of  the  inlet,  remaining  concealed. 

The  Sea-Sprite,  which  could  be  seen  from  the  outer 
edge  of  the  rocks,  stood  gallantly  in,  driving  a  drift  of 
snow  before  her,  till  within  about  a  mile  of  the  shore  ; 
when,  as  if  she  had  discovered  some  signs  of  our  pre- 
sence, she  wore  round,  hoisted  her  studd'n'sails,  and 
stood  away  in  a  south-westerly  direction. 

"  Pull  away  cheerily,"  said  the  captain  to  the  men  in 
the  boats,  who  had  lain  on  their  oars  in  readiness. 

Slowly  the  Dart  emerged  from  her  hiding  place — the 
sails  were  squared  round  so  as  to  present  their  broad 
surfaces  to  the  wind,  and  away  she  darted  in  swift 
pursuit,  like  an  eagle  in  quest  of  his  prey.  A  stern 
chase  is  proverbially  a  long  one  ;  so  it  proved  in  this 
instance.  The  wind  was  light,  and  although  we  hung 
out  every  rag  of  sail,  the  sun  was  sinking  beyond  the 
sea  when  we  approached  within  gun-shot  of  the  rover. 
Not  a  soul  could  be  seen  on  her  decks, — she  was  work- 
ed as  if  by  magic. 

"  Mr.  Ramrod,"  said  the  captain,  "  clap  a  round  shot 
into  the  long-torn,  and  let  us  see  if  we  cannot  make 
them  show  some  signs  of  life." 

Benjamin  loaded  the  gun,  and  having  got  it  poised 
to  his  fancy,  applied  the  match.  Away  whizzed  the 
iron  messenger.  The  chips  flew  from  the  stern  of  the 
5* 


50          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

rover,  and  a  swarm  of  grizzly  heads,  belonging  to 
bona  fide  bodies,  popped  up  above  the  bulwarks,  and 
then  settled  down  again,  like  so  many  wild  sea-fowl 
disturbed  in  their  nests. 

"  Well  done,  Benjamin ! — I  sec  you  have  not  lost 
any  of  your  skill  for  lack  of  practice." 

The  pirate,  at  length  finding  it  impossible  to  escape 
us,  shortened  sail. 

"  Now  my  men,"  said  the  captain,  "  to  your  duty  ! — 
let  every  gun  be  double-shotted — a  round  shut  and 
grape  ! " 

By  a  well-timed  manoeuvre,  we  ranged  up  under 
her  stern.  Our  men  stood  with  their  arms  extended, 
ready  to  apply  their  lighted  matches. 

"  Fire  !  "  thundered  Satan  West. 

A  storm  of  flame  burst  from  our  side,  and  the  Dart 
reeled  half  out  of  water  under  the  recoil  of  the  over- 
loaded guns.  The  iron  shower  raked  the  pirate  fore 
and  aft,  hurling  those  deadly  missiles,  the  splinters,  in 
every  direction,  and  doing  terrible  execution  on  their 
decks.  Two  more  such  broad-sides  would  havfc  sent 
her  to  the  bottom. 

"  Helm  aweather — jam  hard  ! "  roared  the  captain. 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir ! " — and  we  wore  round  so  as  to  pre- 
sent our  other  broad-side  to  the  enemy. 

While  this  manoeuvre  was  going  on,  the  bows  of 
the  Sea-Sprite  had  fallen  ofFin  the  wind,  so  as  to  bring 
us  side  by  side,  within  half  pistol  shot.  She  returned 
the  fire  with  a  vengeance,  and  several  of  our  brave 
tars  fell  wounded  or  slain  to  the  deck. 

"  Ready !  blaze  away !  " — but  the  sound  of  our  cap- 
tain's voice  was  lost  in  the  thunder  of  the  heavy  ord- 
nance. 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DART.  51 

The  battle  now  commenced  in  real  earnest.  The 
cannon  bellowed,  small  arms  rattled,  the  combatants 
yelled,  the  dying  groaned,  the  iron  thunder-bolt  crash- 
ed, riving  the  vessel's  oaken  timbers,  and  a  dense  sul- 
phur-cloud overspread  the  scene  of  furious  commotion, 
so  that  we  fought  with  an  invisible  enemy.  We  could 
see  nothing  save  the  streaming  lightning  of  the  cannon, 
or  the  fiend-like  figures  that  worked  our  aftermost 
guns,  begrimmed  with  powder  and  blood,  stripped 
nearly  naked,  and  sweltering  in  their  eager  toil.  As 
the  smoke  occasionally  lifted,  however,  the  battered 
bulwarks  of  the  enemy,  and  the  glimmering  streaks 
along  her  black  waist,  showed  that  our  fire  had  been 
rightly  directed ;  and  the  irregularity  with  which  it  was 
returned,  told  the  confusion  that  prevailed  on  her  decks. 
Several  times  we  attempted  to  run  her  aboard,  but  they 
discovered  our  intentions  in  time  to  avoid  us. 

At  length  a  discharge  from  the  well-directed  gun  of 
old  Benjamin,  took  effect  in  her  fore-top.  The  top- 
mast came  thundering  down  with  all  its  rigging,  over 
the  foresail.  Having  thus  lost  the  benefit  of  her  head 
sail,  she  rounded  to,  and  her  jib-boom  came  in  contact 
with  our  fore  rigging. 

"  Now  is  our  time  ! — into  her,  boarders  !  "  roared 
Dacres,  leaping  upon  the  pirate's  forecastle  deck. 

But  the  order  was  useless — they  were  already  hard 
on  his  track.  A  close  and  desperate  struggle  now  took 
place.  Pistols  cracked,  sabres  gleamed,  and  deadly 
blows  were  dealt  on  either  side,  till  a  rampart  of  the 
slain  and  wounded  was  raised  high  between  the  furious 
combatants.  Gloomy  and  dark  as  an  arch-fiend,  the 
pirate  leader  raged  among  his  men,  urging  them  on 
with  threats  and  curses,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  and 


5:2          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

sweeping  down  all  opposition  before  his  dripping  blade. 
But  Dacrcs,  backed  by  his  well-trained  boarders,  re- 
ceived them  on  the  points  of  their  pikes,  with  a  cool- 
ness and  bravery  that  made  them  recoil  upon  each 
other,  like  surges  from  a  rock-ribbed  coast.  Thus  the 
fight  continued  with  various  success,  till  the  attention 
of  the  bucaneers  was  arrested  by  an  unearthly  shout 
in  the  rear,  and  the  tall  figure  of  Percy  was  seen,  lay- 
ing about  him  with  whirlwind  impetuosity,  his  long, 
untrimmed  hair  flying  wildly  in  the  commotion  of  the 
atmosphere,  his  features  working  with  the  madness 
that  controlled  him,  and  his  dilated  eyes  flashing  with 
a  fierce,  unnatural  fire  upon  his  opponents.  All  quail- 
ed before  him.  Wherever  his  merciless  arm  fell  there 
was  an  instant  vacancy.  Although  a  score  of  cutlass- 
es were  glancing,  meteor-like,  around  his  person,  as  if 
by  a  spell,  he  remained  uninjured.  At  length  his  eye 
detected  the  pirate  leader.  Dashing  aside  all  before 
him,  with  one  bound  he  was  at  his  side.  The  fierce 
chief  started  in  amazement  at  the  sight  of  him  whom 
he  supposed  many  a  league  from  the  spot,  if  not  dead, 
but  quickly  recovered  his  stern  and  gloomy  bearing, 

"  Monster  !  where  is  she  1  "  shouted  Percy. 

"  Ask  the  sharks  !  "  replied  the  captain,  lunging  at 
him  with  his  sabre. 

These  were  his  last  words.  Percy,  quick  as  thought, 
drew  a  pistol  from  his  belt  and  fired  into  his  face  !  He 
fell  heavily  to  the  deck,  and  the  combatants  closed 
around  him,  as  tempest-waves  close  over  a  foundering 
ship ! 

The  pirates,  now  that  their  leader  was  slain,  fought 
with  less  spirit,  and  the  victory  was  soon  decided  in  our 
favor.  Sooth  to  say,  it  was  dearly  earned  ;  and  many 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DART.  53 

who  sought  the  battle  with  a  quickened  pulse,  and 
eager  for  the  strife,  were  that  evening  consigned  to  the 
waves.  Of  all  the  pirate's  crew,  consisting  of  nearly  a 
hundred  men,  but  thirteen  remained  unharmed.  Hea- 
vens ! — what  a  ghastly  spectacle  her  decks  presented ! 
Fifty  stalwart  forms  lay  there,  stiffened  in  death,  or 
writhing  in  the  agony  of  their  deep  wounds,  severed 
and  mangled  in  every  way  imaginable  ;  and  -so  slippery 
was  the  main  deck  that  we  could  hardly  cross  it,  while 
the  sea  all  around  was  died  with  the  red  waters  of  life, 
that  gushed  in  a  continuous  stream  from  her  scuppers. 
On  the  forecastle  deck,  where  the  last  desperate 
struggle  had  taken  place,  I  recognized  many  of  our 
own  crew  among  the  lifeless  heaps.  Poor  old  Ram- 
rod, the  gunner,  lay  there,  with  the  black  blood  trick- 
ling over  his  swarthy  brow,  from  a  bullet  hole  in  his 
temple.  He  had  died  while  the  might  of  battle  was 
yet  upon  him — and  the  fierce  scowl  which  he  dart- 
ed at  his  foes,  still  remained  on  his  rigid  features. 
His  hand,  even  in  the  agonies  of  death,  had  not  relin- 
quished its  firm  grasp  on  his  cutlass,  and  the  gigantic 
form  of  a  swart  pirate,  with  his  skull  cloven  down, 
close  at  hand,  showed  that  it  had  been  swayed  to  some 
purpose.  Poor  Benjamin !  I  could  have  wept  over 
him.  He  had  been  in  the  service  from  his  earliest 
days,  and  the  scars  of  many  a  sanguinary  fight  were 
visible  upon  his  muscular  arms,  arid  on  his  bronzed 
and  powerful  chest.  My  brave  boy,  Ponto,  was  there 
also,  hanging  pale  and  wounded  over  the  britch  of  the 
bow  gun.  He  had  followed  me  when  we  boarded, 
like  a  young  tiger  robbed  of  his  mate.  Although  faint 
and  helpless  with  the  loss  of  blood,  which  belched  at 
every  heave  of  his  bosom,  from  a  deep  sabre  wound  in 


54          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

his  shoulder,  and  which  had  completely  saturated  his 
checked  shirt  and  his  duck  pantaloons,  yet  his  firm- 
ness was  unshaken.  I  ordered  one  of  our  men  to  take 
charge  of  him,  until  he  could  be  looked  to  by  the  sur- 
geon. "  Not  yet,"  faintly  exclaimed  the  generous 
child,  pointing  to  Mengs,  the  boatswain,  who  lay  wound- 
ed over  a  coil  of  the  cable,  with  three  or  four  grim 
looking  bucanccrs  stretched  dead  across  his  chest,  the 
blood  from  their  wounds  streaming  into  his  face  and 
neck, — "  look  to  him  first,  he  may  be  suffocated." 

"  No,  no,  youngster,"  murmured  the  hardy  Briton, 
"  I  'd  do  very  well  till  my  turn  comes,  if  I  had  this 
ugly  looking  craft  cast  off  from  my  gun-deck,  and  a  can 
of  water  stowed  away  in  my  cable  tier  !" 

After  the  prisoners  were  secured,  I  sought  the  cab- 
in, where  I  had  ordered  Ponto  to  be  carried.  It  was  a 
richly  garnished  room,  with  berth  hangings  of  crimson 
damask  and  amber  colored  silk,  a  gorgeous  carpet 
from  the  looms  of  Brussels,  and  furniture  in  keeping. 
Opposite  the  companion-way  hung  a  superb  picture  of 
the  virgin  mother  and  her  infant,  and  over  it  a  golden 
crucifix,  while  beneath,  on  a  rose  wood  table,  lay  a 
guitar,  implements  for  sketching,  and  various  articles 
for  female  employ  and  amusement.  Indeed,  one 
might  have  supposed  himself  entering  the  boudoir  of 
a  delicate  Spanish  belle,  rather  than  the  domicil  of  a 
lawless  rover.  This  I  remember  but  from  the  glance 
of  a  moment.  My  attention  was  drawn  to  the  occu- 
pants of  the  place.  There  lay  my  wounded  boy,  by 
the  side  of  a  silken  sofa-couch,  his  face  buried  in  the 
garments  of  a  female  stretched  lifeless  upon  it,  and 
over  them  bent  the  tall  form  of  Percy,  gazing  upon  the 
group  with  a  fixed,  vacant  stare,  which  told  that  suffer- 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DART.  55 

ing  could  wring  his  soul  no  longer — desolation  and 
madness  had  come  upon  him.  His  attitude,  the  ex- 
pression of  his  features,  and  the  low,  convulsive  sobs 
and  broken  murmurs  of  the  boy,  at  once  explained  the 
scene.  The  one  had  found  a  wife,  the  other  a  sister, 
in  that  inanimate  form.  I  advanced  nearer,  in  hopes 
that  life  might  not  be  altogether  extinct.  The  sight 
was  appalling,  but  beautiful.  The  pale,  dead  face,  up- 
on which  the  mellow  radiance  of  sunset  streamed 
through  the  sky-light,  was  lovely  as  a  seraph's.  Her 
eyes  were  closed  as  if  in  sleep  ;  the  long  braids  of  her 
bright  hair  lay  undisturbed  upon  her  marble  forehead, 
and  there  was  no  appearance  of  violence,  save  where 
the  dress  of  sea-green  silk  had  been  torn  back  from  her 
bosom,  as  if  in  her  dying  agonies,  displaying  a  dark 
puncture,  as  of  a  grape-shot,  just  below  the  snowy 
swell  of  the  throat,  from  which  the  crimson  blood  ooz- 
ed, slowly  trickling  down  over  her  white  and  rounded 
shoulder.  She  had  probably  been  killed  by  our  first 
raking  broadside. 

"  Fire  !  fire  !  "  shouted  a  dozen  voices  on  deck.  I 
sprang  up  the  companion-way.  The  fore-hatch"  had 
been  removed,  and  a  dense  volume  of  smoke  was  roll- 
ing up  from  below.  A  glance  was  sufficient  to  show 
that  no  effort  of  ours  could  save  the  vessel,  and  pre- 
parations were  speedily  made  to  rescue  the  wounded, 
and  abandon  her  to  her  fate.  It  being  impossible  for 
me  to  leave  my  duty  on  deck,  I  sent  a  trusty  Hiberni- 
an to  rescue  my  helpless  boy  and  to  inform  Percy  of 
our  situation.  He  returned  with  a  rueful  countenance. 

"  Ochone  !  Mr.  Hackinsack,"  said  the  tender  heart- 
ed fellow,  it  almost  made  the  salt  wather  come  intil 
my  een,  to  see  the  poor  man  and  the  beautiful  kilt 


56          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

Icddy, — an^  \vhin  I  tould  'cm  as  how  the  schooner  was 
burnin'  and  would  be  blown  to  Jcrico  in  a  twinklin'  all 
be  said  was  to  give  me  a  terrible,  ferocious-like  scowl 
and  point  with  a  loaded  pistol  to  the  companion  ;  so  I 
took  his  mainin'  an'  left  'em." 

Two  other  messengers,  sent  to  take  him  away  by 
force,  met  with  no  better  success. 

The  flames  were  ready  to  burst  out  on  even-  side, 
and  from  each  chink  and  crevice  around  the  hatches — 
which  had  been  replaced  and  barred  down — the  smoke 
was  darting  up  with  the  force  of  vapour  from  a  steam 
engine.  The  deck  had  become  so  heated  that  it  was 
painful  to  stand  upon  it — the  fire  was  fast  progressing 
towards  the  run,  where  the  magazine  was  situated. 
Thrice  had  the  order  been  given  to  quit  the  burning 
vessel,  but  I  could  not  forsake  my  friend  without  one 
more  effort  to  rescue  him  from  the  terrible  fate  that 
awaited  him,  if  left  behind.  He  still  held  the  loaded 
pistol  in  his  hand  and  sternly  forbade  my  approach. 
Poor  Ponto  had  fainted  from  grief  and  loss  of  blood, 
and  lay  across  his  sister's  body.  I  sprang  forward  and 
raised  him  in  my  arms,  regardless  of  the  maniac's 
threats.  The  pistol  banged  in  my  ear,  but  fortunately 
the  ball  passed  over  me  as  I  stooped,  and  I  regained 
the  companion-way  without  injury.  By  this  time,  he 
had  drawn  another  from  his  belt. 

"  Put  away  the  pistol,  and  come  with  me,"  I  urged, 
— "  the  vessel  is  on  fire  and  will  soon  be  blown  to  at- 
oms." 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  grim  stare  for  a  moment, 
then  burst  into  an  idiotic  laugh.  That  wild  laugh  is 
still  ringing  in  my  brain.  "  Ha  !  ha !  ha  ! — Fire  1 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DART.  57 

fire  1  here  it  is,  wreathing  and  coiling  ! — here  !  here  ! " 
dashing  his  hand  against  his  forehead. 

Perceiving  that  it  was  vain  to  reason  with  his  mad- 
ness, and  fearing  for  the  life  of  the  wounded  boy  in 
my  arms,  I  reluctantly  left  the  hapless  man  to  his  fate. 

The  boat  had  already  put  off  for  the  last  time,  but 
I  succeeded  in  prevailing  upon  them  to  return,  and 
leaping  in,  soon  reached  the  Dart  in  safety. 

The  night  set  in  wild  and  black  as  Death.  Dispart- 
ed and  ragged  masses  of  cloud  were  rushing  over  the 
face  of  the  heavens,  where  once  and  again,  the  soaring 
moon,  and  that  same  bright,  solitary  star,  would  show 
their  calm  faces  through  the  reeling  rack,  apparently 
flying  from  this  scene  of  turmoil  and  death.  The  in- 
creasing wind  howled  mournfully  through  the  rigging, 
and  our  battered  hull  staggered  along  the  inky  main 
writhing  and  shuddering  on  the  heave  of  the  surge  like 
a  weary,  wounded  thing. 

We  followed  in  the  track  of  the  burning  vessel  as 
she  fled  along  before  the  gale,  awaiting  in  breathless 
suspense  the  consummation  of  her  wild  career.  The 
black  smoke,  interfulgent  with  tortuous  tongues  of  lurid 
fire,  rolled  in  immense  volumes  over  her  ! — the  red 
flames  darted  up  her  masts,  along  the  spars  and  rig- 
ging, and  gushed  in  swirling  sheets  from  her  ports  and 
bulwarks,  while  in  their  fierce  gleams,  the  billows 
that  ramped  and  raved  about  her,  glowed  like  a  huge 
seething  cauldron  of  molten  iron,  and  the  gloomy  clouds 
that  lowered  above  were  tinged  in  their  ragged  bor- 
ders, as  with  blood.  Occasionally  the  jarring  thun- 
der of  her  cannon,  as  they  became  heated  to  explosion, 
announced  to  us  the  progress  of  the  insidious  destroyer. 


6 


58         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

But  a  still  more  thrilling  spectacle  awaited  us.  In 
the  height  of  the  conflagration,  the  hapless  Percy T 
bearing  his  dead  wife  in  his  arms,  emerged  as  it  were 
from  the  very  midst  of  the  flames,  and  took  a  stand  on 
the  companion-way.  So  strongly  was  the  tall,  dark- 
figure  relieved  against  the  glowing  element,  that  his 
slightest  gesture  could  not  escape  our  scrutiny.  While 
with  one  arm  he  spanned  the  waist  of  the  supple  corse, 
which  apparently  struggled  to  escape  from  his  grasp, 
he  waved  the  other  on  high  as  if  exulting  in  the  whirl 
and  commotion  around  him.  He  seemed  like  the  min- 
ister of  some  .dark  rite  of  heathenism,  preparing  to  offer 
up  a  victim  to  the  Moloch  of  his  superstition. 

At  length  arrived  the  dreadful  moment !  The  black 
hull  seemed  to  be  lifted  bodily  out  of  the  water.  A 
volume  of  smoke  burst  over  her  like  the  first  eruption 
of  a  volcano !  A  spire  of  flame  shot  up  to  the  heavens, 
filling  the  firmament  with  burning  fragments,  while 
the  clouds  that  overhung  the  sea,  were  torn  and  scat- 
tered by  the  tremendous  concussion.  A  crash  follow- 
ed— a  deep,  bellowing  boom,  as  if  the  solid  globe  had 
split  asunder  ! — then  all  was  darkness — dreary,  void, 
silent  as  death  ! 


TO  M***,  ON  HER  BIRTH-DAY. 

By  William  Cutter. 

WHAT  though  the  skies  of  winter 

Look  cold  and  cheerless  now  ! 
What  though  earth  wears  no  mantle 

But  that  of  ice  and  snow  ! 
Though  trees,  all  bare  and  leafless, 

Stretch  up  their  naked  arms, 
In  sad  and  mournful  silence, 

To  brave  the  wintry  storms ! 
There  is  enough  of  sunshine, 

Fond  memory  will  say, 
Around  this  morning  clustered — 

This  is  thy  natal  day  ! 

What  though  the  birds  of  summer, 

Flown  far  and  long  away, 
In  gentler  climes  are  warbling, 

Their  loved  and  grateful  lay ! 
What  though,  in  field  and  garden, 

No  fragrant  incense  pours 
From  nature's  thousand  altars — 

Her  blossoms  and  her  flowers ! 
There's  music  sweet  as  angels', 

And  fragrance  sweet  as  May, 
In  the  thoughts  that  breathe  and  blossom 

Around  thy  natal  day  ! 

To  me,  the  skies  above  us 
Are  bright  as  summer's  noon ! 

And  trees,  in  crystal  blossoms, 
More  brilliant  than  in  June ! 

There's  music  in  the  wintry  blast — 
There's  fragrance  in  the  snow — 


60          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

And  a  garb  of  glorious  beauty 
On  every  thing  below  ! 

For  oh !  affection,  wakened 
With  morning's  earliest  ray, 

Has  never  ceased  to  whisper — 
This  is  thy  natal  day  ! 


RELIGIOUS  OBLIGATION  IN  RULERS. 

By  John  W.  Chickering-. 

IT  is  a  great  truth,  and  worthy  of  a  place  among  the 
few  grand  principles  which  lie  at  the  foundation  of  all 
wise  and  just  government,  that  '  the  Most  High  ruleth 
in  the  kingdom  of  men.'  This  may  be  understood  de 
jure,  or  de  facto  ;  and  in  either  sense  must  be  believed, 
not  only  by  those  who  admit,  on  the  authority  of  the 
prophet,  that  it  was  spoken  by  a  divine  voice,  but  by 
all  who  do  not  deny  the  whole  theory  of  an  overruling: 
Providence. 

That  the  almighty  Ruler  retains  both  a  right  and  an 
agency  in  the  management  of  terrestrial  governments, 
is  undisputed  by  all  who  recognize  his  right  and  his 
agency  in  any  thing.  It  is  the  atheist  alone  who  would 
insulate  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  from  the  kingdom 
of  heaven.  None  would  banish  Jehovah  from  the 
smaller  empires  his  providence  has  organized  and  sus- 
tained, but  those  who  banish  him  from  the  universe  his 
power  has  created. 

Thus  atheism  in  philosophy  is  sole  progenitor  of 
atheism  in  politics ;  and  it  should  not  excite  our  sur- 


RELIGIOUS  OBLIGATION  IN  RULERS.       61 

prise,  that  he  who  '  sees '  not  '  God  in  clouds  nor  hears 
him  in  the  wind,' — who  beholds  in  the  great  things  of 
the  earth,  the  air  and  the  sea,  no  footsteps  of  divine 
power,  and  no  finger-prints  of  divine  wisdom,  should  be 
equally  blind  concerning  the  progress  of  civil  affairs, 
and  should  so  have  perverted  his  mind,  and  so  tortur- 
ed the  moral  sense  which  God  gave  him,  as  to  believe, 
and  to  rejoice,  that  without  God,  kingdoms  rise  and 
fall,  and  that  it  is  not.1-  by  him  '  that  '  kings  reign,  and 
princes  decree  justice.' 

But  with  the  atheist,  that  moral  monster, ' hor- 

rendum,  informe,  ingens,  cui  lumen  ademptum,'  we 
are  not  now  concerned.  We  leave  him  to  the  dark- 
ness he  has  brought  upon  himself  through  his  '  philoso- 
phy and  vain  deceit,'  and  to  the  enjoyment,  if  enjoy- 
ment it  be,  of  his  dreary  cavern,  more  dreary  than  that 
of  Polyphemus, — a  godless  world. 

We  come  to  inquire,  by  way  of  preparation  for 
the  more  direct  prosecution  of  the  object  of  this  article, 
concerning  the  views  entertained  by  the  great  mass  of 
mankind  who  believe  in  the  existence  and  providence 
of  Jehovah,  as  to  his  particular  connection  with  the 
subordinate  governments  on  earth,  and  the  station 
which  it  is  his  holy  pleasure  to  occupy  in  their  control 
and  management.  And  here  we  find  at  once,  wide 
and  hurtful  mistakes ;  occupying  relatively,  such  is 
man's  tendency  to  extremes,  the  position  of  antipodes. 
Some,  overlooking  the  twofold  agency,  partly  civil, 
partly  ecclesiastical,  by  which  the  Most  High  promotes 
his  own  ends  and  the  well  being  of  his  creatures,  have 
resolved  each  into  the  other,  making  religion  an  affair 
of  the  state,  and  civil  government  a  matter  for  eccle- 
siastical influence ;  producing  in  practice  the  unseemly 
6* 


62          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

componnd,  commonly  called  "church  and  state,7'  but 
which  might  be  more  accurately  characterized  as  the 
ruin  of  both. 

As  the  fruits  of  this  mistake,  the  world  has  seen  pro- 
fane monarchs  invested  with  titles  of  religion  and  piety. 
In  some  countries,  aided  by  ambition  and  intrigue,  it 
has  brought  kings  to  kiss  the  feet  of  the  professed  am- 
bassadors of  Jesus  Christ ;  and  gained  for  them  honors 
and  power,  which  their  divine  but  humble  master  de- 
clined for  himself.  This  mistake  has  been  confirmed,- 
if  it  was  not  originated,  by  the  organization  of  the  great 
Jewish  theocracy.  This  was,  indeed,  church  and 
state.  But  it  was  under  a  divine  administration. — Anil 
although  the  fact  that  the  Deity  not  only  attested  and 
ratified  the  alliance,  but  condescended  to  be  legislator, 
judge,  and  executive,  might  at  once  have  prevented 
the  inference ;  yet  men  hare  inferred  that  the  civil  and 
ecclesiastical  powers  ought  always  to  be  thus  commin- 
gled. The  consequences  might  have  been  anticipated. 
The  history  both  of  Christianity  and  of  the  world,  is 
darkened  by  their  melancholy  shade.  Religion,  un- 
guarded by  the  miraculous  intervention  'of  Him  who, 
under  a  former  dispensation,  smote  the  offerers  of 
strange  fire,  has  been  corrupted  by  those  who  would 
do  her  honor,  and  crushed  by  the  embraces  of  false 
friends  ; — and  her  splendid  sojourn  in  the  halls  of  pow- 
er, has  been  met  by  reverses  not  less  striking,  and  far 
more  disastrous,  than  Moses  met  after  being  the  pro- 
tege of  royalty  ;  while  the  civil  rights  of  men,  invaded 
by  ambition  and  avarice,  under  the  name  of  religion, 
and  with  the  sanction  of  God's  name,  have  been  yield- 
ed up  without  a  struggle,  under  the  impression,  that 
resistance  would  be  "  fighting  against  God."  What 


RELIGIOUS    OBLIGATION    IN    RULERS.  63 

would  not  have  been  demanded  in  the  name  of  man,  has 
been  freely  given  in  the  name  of  God ; — men  who  in 
defence  of  their  rights,  would  have  ventured  cheerfully 
upon  treason,  have  shrunk  with  horror  from  sacrilege. 

Thus  religion  and  liberty  have  well-nigh  perished 
together,  and  their  present  resting-place  on  earth  re- 
sembles rather  the  one  found  by  Noah's  dove  on  her 
second  flight,  than  the  broad  home,  illimitable  but  by 
the  world's  circumference,  which  as  philanthropists  we 
hope,  and  as  Christians  we  pray,  they  may  soon  enjoy. 

Others  again,  warned,  perhaps,  by  the  disasters  con- 
sequent upon  the  policy  last  described,  have  gone  to 
the  extreme,  not  less  hurtful,  and  far  more  presump- 
tuous, of  excluding  religious  motives  and  religious  prin- 
ciples from  all  influence  in  the  affairs  of  the  common- 
wealth. They  have  thus  become  quoad  hoc,  practical 
atheists.  Content  indeed,  that  the  Deity  should  keep 
our  planet  in  motion,  and  regulate  its  seasons  and  its 
tides ;  and  surround  and  cover  it  with  the  blessings  of 
Providence,  nor  careful  to  forbid  him  a  participation 
even  in  the  internal  concerns  of  Jupiter,  or  Herschell, 
— perhaps  even  willing  to  admit  in  theory,  the  truth  of 
the  statement  from  the  inspired  record  with  which  this 
article  commenced, — they  yet  deem  it  best  for  man, 
considered  either  as  a  governing  or  as  a  governed  be- 
ing, that  the  notion  of  a  presiding  Deity  should  be  as 
much  as  possible  excluded  from  his  mind.  The  mere 
juxtaposition  of  the  words  "  religion  "  and  "  politics," 
or  any  of  their  correlates,  is  sufficient  to  excite  the 
fears  of  these  scrupulous  alarmists  ;  and  if  they  do  not 
imitate  the  example  of  the  French,  who  were  seen 
near  the  close  of  the  last  century,  rushing  madly  with 
the  pendulum-like  oscillation  of  human  nature,  from 


64          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

the  bonds  of  religious  despotism,  into  the  very  wilder- 
ness of  atheism,  and  denounce  Jehovah  as  a  usurper, 
and  his  adherents  as  rebels  against  "  the  powers  that 
be,"  they  strive  to  separate  all  questions  and  acts  of 
government  from  God  and  his  laws,  as  if  there  were 
no  God  ;  thus  making,  if  not  an  atheistic  people,  an 
atheistic  government.  Far  otherwise,  we  cannot  but 
pause  here  to  remark,  acted  the  noble  men,  the  sifted 
wheat  of  three  kingdoms,  who  were  thrown  by  God's 
providence  through  ecclesiastical  tyranny,  upon  these 
shores.  If  they  for  a  time,  with  a  strange  tenacity  of 
old  habits,  which  showed  that  principle,  not  passion, 
led  them,  clung  to  the  very  usages  respecting  tolera- 
tion, which  had  exiled  them,  they  at  least  preserved 
the  nation  which  they  founded,  from  the  character  and 
the  curse  of  a  nation  which  despises  God.  Heaven 
grant,  that  the  pendulum  may  not  even  now  be  swing- 
ing to  the  other  extreme  ! 

While  we  would  have  the  affairs  of  the  nation  man- 
aged as  if  there  were  no  church  in  the  world,  we  would 
not  have  them  managed  as  if  there  were  no  GOD  in  the 
world.  Could  our  voices  reach  the  millions  of  our 
countrymen,  as  Joshua's  voice  reached  the  thousands 
of  Israel,  we  would  say  as  he  said,  '  IF  THE  LORD  BE 
GOD,  SERVE  HIM.'  In  a  word,  while  we  believe  that 
the  civil  and  ecclesiastical  departments  ought  to  be 
distinct,  and  that  their  union  is  a  departure  from  the 
intention  of  Him  who  formed  both,  and  that  it  is 
fraught  with  the  most  disastrous  consequences  to  both, 
we  do  not.  believe  that  the  almighty  Ruler  has  exclud- 
ed himself  from  the  control  of  either,  or  given  the  least 
permission  that  either  should  be  managed  on  any  other 
principles  than  the  eternal  principles  of  right,  which  arc 
embodied  in  his  character,  and  laid  down  in  his  word. 


RELIGIOUS    OBLIGATION    IN    RULERS.  65 

When  we  speak  of  a  sense  of  religious  obligation, 
we  mean  more  than  a  general  undefined  belief  that 
such  an  obligation  exists.  Such  a  belief  is  withheld, 
we  trust,  by  comparatively  few  who  hold  important 
places  in  our  national  and  State  governments.  But  can 
it  be  doubted  by  any  man  who  has  accustomed  himself 
to  contemplate  the  distinction  between  mere  intellectual 
assent,  and  the  warm,  practical  conviction  which  reach- 
es the  heart,  and  controls  the  conduct,  that  this  belief 
may  coexist  with  as  total  an  insensibility  to  the  claims 
of  Jehovah,  as  if  it  were  William  IV.,  or  Nicholas  of 
Russia,  who  performed  them,  instead  of  the  Most  High 
God'? 

Is  it  too  much  to  desire,  nay  to  infer,  as  a  duty,  from 
what  has  already  been  said,  that  our  rulers  in  the  ex- 
ecutive, legislative,  and  judicial  departments,  both  in 
the  general  and  State  governments,  should  have  an 
abiding  consciousness  of  accountability — should  live 
under  a  felt  pressure  of  obligation — to  the  Sovereign 
of  the  universe,  which  should  assume,  as  it  must  where 
it  exists  at  all,  a  practical,  binding  force  1  Is  it  too 
much  to  ask,  that  they  should  remember  that  they  are 
the  servants  of  Go^d  for  good  to  this  great  people,  and 
that  to  their  own  Master  they  stand  or  fall  1  That  they 
rule  by  God's  permission,  and  for  his  ends ;  and  that  a 
higher  tribunal  than  any  on  earth  awaits  the  termina- 
tion of  their  responsibility  to  man  1  That  they  should 
remember  their  obligation,  in  common  with  those  who 
elevated  them  to  office,  "  whatever  they  do,  to  do  all  to 
the  glory  of  God;"  and  the  solemn  truth,  that  a  sin 
against  God  or  man,  whether  of  omission  or  of  com- 
mission, whether  committed  in  private,  in  the  family 
circle,  or  in  the  high  places  of  authority,  is  no  less  a 


66          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

sin,  when  committed  by  a  judge,  or  a  legislator,  or  a 
chief  magistrate  of  a  State  or  nation,  than  by  the 
humblest  of  his  constituents  7  In  a  word,  do  we  claim 
too  prominent  a  place  for  religious  principle  in  the  ad- 
ministration of  public  affairs,  when  we  avow  our  desire 
that  the  rulers  of  a  people,  who  arc  the  nominal,  and 
in  a  free  government  the  real,  representatives  of  the 
people,  should  be  daily  and  practically  aware,  that  they 
are  accountable  to  a  higher  Power,  thus  realizing,  if 
not  in  the  highest  and  most  Christian  sense,  yet  in  the 
literal  signification,  the  picture  of  a  good  ruler  drawn 
by  the  prophet,  who,  in  the  name  of  the  almighty 
Ruler,  declares,  "  He  that  ruleth  over  men,  must  be 
just — riding  in  the  fear  of  God  ?  " 

We  cannot  reflect  without  occasion  for  the  deepest 
gratitude,  that  in  contemplating  the  advantages  of  such 
a  state  of  mind  and  of  heart,  as  possessed  by  men  in 
authority,  we  are  not  confined  to  a  priori  reasoning. 
England  has  had  her  Alfred,  her  Edward  VI.,  and  her 
Matthew  Hale  ;  Sweden  her  Gustavus  Adolphus  ;  our 
own  most  cherished  and  beloved  country,  a  Washing- 
ton, and  a  Wirt,  with  many  others  among  the  dead, 
and  not  a  few  among  the  living,  to,  whom  our  readers 
may  recur  as  we  proceed,  both  for  illustration  of  our 
meaning,  and  proof  of  our  assertions. 

Among  the  effects  of  this  sense  of  obligation,  which 
go  to  show  its  importance  to  every  man  in  public  life, 
we  mention  first,  its  influence  in  checking  the  love  and 
pride  of  power.  It  will  not  be  said  by  any  man,  who 
has  acquired  even  a  smattering  of  the  science  of  hu- 
man nature,  that  the  simplicity  of  our  republican  insti- 
tutions excludes  all  danger  from  this  source.  It  is  the 
great  weakness  of  man,  to  desire  power ;  and,  having 


RELIGIOUS  OBLIGATION  IN  RULERS.       67 

it,  to  be  proud  of  it ;  and,  in  his  pride,  to  abuse  it.  It 
matters  not  whether  it  be  the  power  of  a  monarch  on 
his  throne,  or  of  the  humblest  village  functionary.  If 
it  be  power,  or  even  the  semblance  of  power,  it  charms 
the  eye  of  the  expectant,  and,  too  often,  turns  the  head 
of  the  possessor. 

True,  in  this  land,  power  walks  in  humble  guise. 
She  rides  in  no  gilded  chariot — is  clothed  with  no  robes 
of  state — is  preceded  by  no  heralds  with  announce- 
ment of  noble  titles — is  decorated  with  no  ribbons  and 
stars.  Nor  is  there  an  office  worth  seeking,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  gain,  except  in  some  special  cases,  growing 
rather  out  of  individual  character  and  circumstances, 
than  from  design  on  the  part  of  legislators.  But  who 
will  deny,  that  RANK,  here,  as  elsewhere  throughout  the 
wide  world,  has  its  attractions  1  And  who,  that  has 
thought  upon  the  subject  carefully,  doubts  that  they  are 
as  strong,  as  if  it  were  hereditary  1  As  far  as  pride  of 
heart  in  the  possessor  is  concerned,  undoubtedly  the 
temptation  is  even  greater.  That  rank  is  not  hereditary, 
and  is  therefore  attainable  by  individual  effort,  opens  a 
fountain  of  ambition  in  a  thousand  hearts,  which,  under 
another  constitution  of  society,  would  never  have  known 
ambition,  but  as  a  strange  word,  while  the  fact  that  it 
is  ordinarily  the  prize  of  talent,  attaches  to  it  an  addi- 
tional power  to  tempt  and  seduce  the  mind.  It  need 
not  be  said,  that  so  far  as  this  love  and  pride  of  power 
exists,  it  tends  to  subvert  all  the  true  ends  of  govern- 
ment. 

That  the  influence  of  a  sense  of  subordination  and 
accountableness  to  the  Supreme  Being,  will  be  direct 
and  strong  in  checking  these  tendencies  of  human  na- 
ture, is  so  plain  as  to  command  assent  without  argu- 


68          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

mcnt.  Who  can  be  proud  in  the  perceived  presence 
of  infinite  splendor  and  worth '}  How  can  ambition 
thrive  under  the  overshadowing  greatness  of  almighty 
Power  1 

It  is  recorded  of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  that  being  sur- 
prised one  day  by  his  officers  in  secret  prayer  in  his 
tent,  he  said  :  "  Persons  of  my  rank  are  answerable  to 
God  alone  for  their  actions  ;  this  gives  the  enemy  of 
mankind  a  peculiar  advantage  over  us  ;  an  advantage 
which  can  be  resisted  only  by  prayer  and  reading  the 
Scriptures."  This  remark,  though  it  does  not  specify 
the  moral  dangers  to  which  the  royal  worshipper  was 
exposed,  has  reference,  undoubtedly,  in  part,  if  not 
mainly,  to  that  pride  and  loftiness  of  heart,  which  are 
the  unrestrained  denizens  of  those  high  regions  in  the 
social  atmosphere,  which  lie  above  the  common  walks 
of  life.  Let  a  man  in  one  of  the  high  places  of  the 
earth,  be  accustomed  only  to  look  doivn,  and  he  is 
ready  like  Herod  of  old,  to  fancy  the  flattery,  truth, 
which  tells  him  he  is  a  god  ; — let  him  look  up ; — there 
Jehovah  sitteth  above  the  water  floods  and  remaineth 
king  forever  ! 

Another  important  effect  of  such  views  of  religious 
obligation,  will  be  seen  in  restraining  the  blind  and 
ruinous  excess  of  party  feeling.  He  is  a  short-sighted 
politician  indeed,  who  utters  a  sweeping  denunciation 
of  party  distinctions.  And  if  they  may  be  harmless, 
and  even  in  some  cases  form  the  very  safety  of  the  na- 
tion, then  party  feeling,  without  which  parties  could 
not  exist,  is,  in  some  of  its  degrees  and  dcvelopcmenls 
right  and  desirable.  But  like  the  lightning  of  heaven, 
while  it  purifies  the  political  atmosphere,  how  easily 
and  how  quickly  may  it  desolate  and  destroy !  In  its 


RELIGIOUS    OBLIGATION    IN    RULERS.  69 

healthful  action,  it  is  like  the  gentle  breeze,  which  re- 
freshes man  and  fertilizes  the  earth ;  in  its  excess,  like 
the  tornado,  which  sweeps  away  every  green  thing,  and 
even  upturns  the  foundations  of  many  generations. 

When  it  is  a  modification  of  true-hearted  patriotism, 
seeking  the  public  good  by  party  organizations,  it  is 
right  and  safe  ;  but  when  it  is  the  offspring  of  the 
wicked  selfishness,  already  described,  it  is  restrained 
by  no  bounds,  and  directed  to  no  good  end.  When  a 
public  officer,  of  whatever  rank,  becomes  the  servant 
of  a  party,  instead  of  being  a  servant  of  God,  for  good 
to  the  people,  it  is  not  difficult  to  foresee  the  conse- 
quences. 

No  argument  is  necessary  to  show  that  he  who  feels 
himself  accountable  to  God,  will  be  but  slightly  con- 
strained by  the  bonds  of  party  influence.  So  far  as  he 
regards  the  ends  of  a  party  as  accordant  with  the  true 
ends  of  government,  which  in  some  cases  may  be 
nothing  more  than  the  truth,  and  in  others  nothing  less 
— his  sense  of  religious  obligation  will  of  course  not  in- 
terfere with  his  diligent  prosecution  of  those  ends. 
But  at  that  critical  point,  where  ends  zeal  for  party, 
for  the  sake  of  the.  common  weal,  and  begins  zeal  for 
party,  for  the  party's  sake,  and  for  ambition's  sake, 
there  a  sense  of  paramount  obligation,  like  the  mag- 
netic power,  will  still  the  whispers  of  selfishness,  and 
counteract  the  tendencies  of  party  commitment.  The 
Christian  politician  knows  no  party  but  the  party  of 
patriots,  or,  if  that  party  te  divided,  he  seeks  not  the 
building  up  of  either  fragment  for  its  own  sake — but 
the  building  up  on  the  best  and  most  hopeful,  or  if 
need  be^on  the  ruins  of  both,  the  great  fabric  of  pub- 
lic welfare.  Who  does  not  desire  to  see  a  deep  sense 
7 


70          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

of  allegiance  to  one  who  is  our  Master,  pervading  the 
leaders  and  the  adherents  of  the  great  political  parties, 
into  which  it  is  so  common  and  perhaps  necessary,  for 
nations  to  be  divided  I — under  such  an  influence,  how 
might  excesses  be  restrained,  needless  repellances  be 
neutralized,  and  how  soon,  instead  of  fierce  bands  of 
brethren  gathered  in  distinct  and  opposing  array,  like 
the  dark  clouds  of  summer,  meeting  over  our  heads, 
might  we  sec  the  beauty  and  the  strength  of  party  or- 
ganization, without  its  wide  severance  and  its  deadly 
hate,  like  the  rainbow,  which  is  not  more  beautiful  in 
the  variety  of  its  colors,  than  in  the  grace  with  which 
the  divine  Painter  has  blended  them. 

It  will  be  denied  by  none,  of  whatever  religious  or 
political  faith,  that  public  morals  are,  under  a  govern- 
ment like  ours,  the  life-blood  of  national  strength  and 
safety.  The  day  that  shall  behold  us  a  nation  of  gam- 
blers, or  duelists,  or  profane  swearers  or  drunkards,  or 
Sabbath-breakers — will  be  the  day  of  our  political 
death.  Armies,  and  navies,  and  enterprise,  and  num- 
bers, with  a  sound  hereditary  government,  may  for  a 
time  give  prosperity  to  a  dissolute  immoral  people. 
But  in  a  government  like  ours,  where  the  laws  and  the 
administration  of  law.  are  as  quickly  and  as  certainly 
offected  by  the  popular  sentiment,  owing  to  frequent 
election*,  as  the  sunbeams  are  reflected  from  the  sum- 
mer clouds,  prosperity  cannot  survive  morality  a  sin- 
gle clay.  And  who  can  tell  how  important,  in  this 
view,  it  i>,  that  our  public  men  should  be  public  mod- 
els of  private  virtue  ! 

Oh,  when,  our  hearts  exclaim,  when  shall  the  evil 
example  be  unknown  in  the  high  places  of  power ;  arid 
purity,  truth,  high-toned  Christian  morality,  beam  like 


RELIGIOUS    OBLIGATION    IN    RULERS.  71 

another  sun,  from  the  scats  of  influence  1  The  true 
answer  to  this  question  would  afford  another  argument 
for  the  importance  of  that  sense  of  religious  obligation 
which  has  now  been  considered.  The  command  of 
God  is  the  only  mandate  in  the  universe  which  can  ef- 
fectually restrain  human  passions  and  desires.  The 
voice  which  comes  attended  by  the  sanction,  "  Thus 
saith  the  Lord,"  is  the  only  voice  which  can  success- 
fully say,  "  peace  !  be  still,"  to  the  winds  and  the 
waves  of  wrong  inclination.  When  our  rulers  shall 
"  all  be  taught  of  God," — and  yield  themselves  to  a 
constraining  sense  of  his  dominion,  and  their  own  ac- 
countableness — then,  and  not  till  then,  will  they  as  a 
body,  be  such  models  of  private  correctness  and  virtue, 
as  many  of  them,  both  among  the  dead  and  among  the 
living,  have  been,  for  the  imitation  of  the  young  men, 
the  hope  and  glory  of  our  land. 

Again,  and  it  is  the  last  consideration  we  shall  pre- 
sent, how  powerful  a  tendency  would  such  views  on 
the  part  of  our  rulers,  possess,  to  awaken  the  utmost 
vigilance  in  the  guardianship  of  their  sacred  trust,  and 
to  elevate  the  mind  and  heart  to  the  purest  feelings, 
and  the  noblest  efforts. 

A  sense  of  accountability,  in  some  manner  and  to 
some  tribunal,  is  essential  to  ensure  fidelity  under  all 
temptations  to  indolence  or  perversion,  in  every  case 
in  which  men  are  the  recipients  of  any  trust.  Apply 
this  principle  to  the  case  of  him  who  holds  some  politi- 
cal station  of  high  importance.  He  feels  himself  re- 
sponsible, not  only  to  men,  but  to  God.  He  knows 
and  remembers  that  he  is  the  servant  of  God  for  good, 
to  the  people.  This  remembrance  and  impression  is 
the  sheet  anchor  of  his  steadfastness.  Other  principles 


72  THE    PORTLAND    SKETCH    BOOK. 

might  hold  him  amidst  the  storms  and  commotions  of 
the  popular  sea,  and  of  his  own  heart ;  this  must. 
With  what  care  will  he  watch  the  precious  trust,  which 
comes  to  him  under  the  seal  of  heaven !  How  sedu- 
lously will  he  guard  the  doors  of  the  temple  of  liberty, 
when  he  perceives  within  it  the  altar  of  God,  and  finds 
his  sentinel's  commission  countersigned  with  the  hand- 
writing of  Jehovah  !  His  heart,  too,  will  be  filled  with 
the  purest  and  most  exalted  sentiments. 

The  fountain  from  which  such  a  man  daily  drinks, 
sparkles  with  the  elements  of  all  that  is  grateful  and 
refreshing. 

The  purest  patriotism,  the  sweetest  charities  of  do- 
mestic life,  the  most  expansive  and  wise  benevolence, 
all  spring  up  in  the  heart  together,  the  consentaneous 
and  harmonious  fruits  of  the  love  and  fear  of  God.  It 
was  in  the  same  school  that  Wilberforce  learned  to 
love  the  slave — Howard  to  love  the  prisoner — Wirt  to 
love  his  country — and  all  to  love  the  world.  They 
feared  and  obeyed  God — and  all  noble  and  generous 
emotions  grow  spontaneously  in  the  soil  of  the  heart 
thus  prepared  and  enriched. 

Nor  is  the  effort  less  marked  or  less  salutary  upon 
the  mind.  Its  thoughts  are  loftier,  and  its  purposes 
deeper  and  more  steadfast,  for  being  conversant  with 
the  great  subject  of  divine  obligation.  No  man  can 
think  much  of  the  Deity,  and  realize  strongly  His  con- 
stant presence  and  inspection,  without  an  elevation  of 
views,  and  a  growing  consciousness  of  that  mental 
power,  for  the  right  use  of  which  he  is  accountable  to 
Him  who  bestowed  it.  We  were  not  made  to  inhabit 
a  godless  world,  and  we  cannot  make  it  so,  in  specula- 
tion and  in  practice,  without  a  deterioration  analogous 


RELIGIOUS  OBLIGATION  IN  RULERS.      .  73 

to  the  dwarfish  tendency  of  emigration  to  a  region 
colder  than  our  native  clime.  "  God  is  a  sun,"  to  the 
mental  as  well  as  to  the  moral  powers  ;  and  in  the  fro- 
zen zone  of  practical  atheism,  both  degenerate  and  die. 
The  noble  motto,  "  Bene  orasse  est  bene  studisse"  ap- 
plies with  hardly  less  force  to  secular,  than  to  sacred 
studies. 

With  what  energy  must  it  arm  the  soul  of  the  patri- 
ot statesman  struggling  against  wrong  counsels,  and 
discredited  dangers,  to  know  that  the  God  of  truth  and 
of  right,  sees  and  approves  his  course  !  With  what 
new  power  does  his  mind  grasp  a  difficult  and  embar- 
rassed subject,  when  he  feels  that  the  Former  of  that 
mind,  now  demands  from  him  an  exertion  of  its  high- 
est powers !  What  exciting  power,  to  call  forth  the 
most  thrilling  eloquence,  can  be  found  in  the  crowded 
senate-chamber,  compared  with  the  consciousness  that 
for  every  word  he  must  give  account  to  Him,  whose 
applause,  if  he  fulfils  his  high  behest,  will  surpass  in 
value  the  shouts  of  an  enraptured  universe  besides  ! 


A   NEW-ENGLAND  WINTER-SCENE, 

EXTRACT    FROM    A    LETTER    TO    A    FRIEND    IN    ONE    OF    THE 
WEST      INDIA     ISLANDS. 

By  William  Cutter. 

{  HAVE  sometimes  almost  envied  you  the  perpetual 
summer  you  enjoy.  You  have  none  of  the  bleak,  dark 
wastes  of  Winter  around  you,  and  have  never  to  look, 
with  aching  heart,  upon  all  fair,  bright,  beautiful  things, 
withering  before  your  eyes,  in  the  severe  frown  of  fros- 
ty Autumn.  It  is  always  green,  and  fresh,  and  fra- 
grant, in  your  Islands  of  eternal  June.  Your  gardens 
are  always  gardens,  gay  and  redolent  with  sweet  blos- 
soms, and  rich  with  ripe  fruits,  mingling  like  youth 
and  manhood  vying  with  each  other, "  from  laughing 
morning  up  to  sober  prime,"  pursuing,  without  blight 
or  dimness,  the  same  gay  round — blooming  and  ripen- 
ing— ripening  and  blooming,  but  never  falling,  through 
all  generations.  Through  all  seasons,  you  have  only 
to  reach  forth  your  hands,  and  there  are  bright  bou- 
quets, and  mellow,  delicious  fruits,  ready  to  fill  them. 
Your  trees  have  always  a  shade  to  spread  over  you  ; 
and  they  cast  oiF  their  gorgeous  blossoms,  and  their 
luxuriant  load,  as  if  they  were  conscious  of  immortal 
youth  and  energy — as  if  they  knew  they  should  never 
fade,  become  fruitless,  or  die.  There  is  no  frail, 
bending,  withering  age,  in  any  thing  of  nature  you  look 
upon — no  blasting  of  the  unripened  bud  by  untimely 
frosts — no  falling  prematurely  of  a'l  'hat  is  beautiful 


A    NEW-ENGLAND    WINTER-SCENE.  /O 

and  rare,  to  remind  you  daily  that  time  is  on  Iris  flight, 
and  that  you  will  not  always  be  young.  I  wonder  you 
do  not  think  yourselves  immortal  in  those  everlasting 
gardens !  Oh !  that  perpetual  youth  and  maturity  of 
every  thing  lovely ! — how  I  have  sometimes  envied  you 
the  possession ! 

But  I  shall  never  envy  you  again.  No — delightful 
as  summer  is,  soft  as  its  breezes,  and  sweet  as  its  mu- 
sic, I  would  not  lose  the  unutterable  glory  of  this  scene, 
that  is  now  before  me,  for  all  the  riches  of  your  Island, 
— its  unfading  summer,  and  everlasting  sweets.  I 
wish  I  could  describe  it  to  you — could  give  you  some 
faint  idea  of  its  celestial  splendor.  But,  to  do  it  any 
justice,  I  should  have  travelled  through  the  fields  of 
those  glittering  constellations  above  me,  to  borrow  ima- 
ges from  the  host  of  heaven.  The  attempt  will  be 
vain — presumptuous — but  I  will  try  to  tell  you  as  much 
of  it  as  I  can. 

The  day  has  been  dark,  cold,  and  stormy.  The 
snow  has  been  falling  lightly,  mingled  with  rain,  which, 
freezing  as  it  fell,  has  formed  a  perfect  covering  of 
ice  upon  every  object.  The  trees  and  shrubbery,  even 
to  their  minutest  branches,  are  all  perfectly  encased  in 
this  transparent  drapery.  Nothing  could  look  more 
bleak  and  melancholy  while  the  storm  continued.  But, 
just  as  evening  closed  in,  the  storm  ceased,  and  the 
clouds  rolled  swiftly  away.  Never  was  a  clearer,  a 
more  spotless  sky.  The  moon  is  in  the  zenith  of  her 
march,  with  her  multitude  of  bright  attendants,  pour- 
ing their  mild  radiance,  like  living  light,  upon  the 
sea  of  glass  that  is  all  around  us.  Oh  !  how  it  kindles 
me  to  look  at  it !  how  it  maddens  me  that  I  have  no 
language  to  tell  it  to  you  !  Do  but  imagine — The 


76          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

fields  blazing  out,  like  oceans  of  molten  silver ! — every 
tree  and  shrub,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  of  pure 
transparent  glass — a  perfect  garden  of  moving,  waving 
breathing  chrystals,  lighted  into  unearthly  splendor  by  a 
full,  unclouded  moon,  and  scattering  undimmed,  in  eve- 
ry direction,  the  beams  that  are  poured  upon  them.  The 
air,  all  around,  seems  alive  with  illuminated  gems.  Ev- 
ery tree  is  a  diamond  chandelier,  with  a  whole  constella- 
tion of  stars  clustering  to  every  socket — and,  as  they 
wave  and  tremble  in  the  light  breeze  that  is  passing,  I 
think  of  the  dance  of  the  morning  stars,  while  they 
sang  together  on  the  birth-day  of  ci'eation.  Earth  is  a 
mirror  of  heaven.  I  can  almost  imagine  myself  borne 
up  among  the  spheres,  and  looking  through  their  vast 
theatre  of  lights.  There  are  stars  of  every  magnitude 
— from  the  humble  twig,  that  glows  and  sparkles  on 
the  very  bosom  of  the  glassy  earth,  and  the  delicate 
thorn  that  points  its  glittering  needle  to  the  light,  to  the 
gorgeous,  stately  tree,  that  lifts  loftily  its  crowned  head 
and  stretches  its  gemmed  and  almost  overborne  arms, 
proudly  and  gloriously  to  the  heavens — all  glowing — 
glittering — flashing — blazing — like — but  why  do  I  at- 
tempt it  I  As  well  might  I  begin  to  paint  the  noon- 
day sun.  (rive  a  loose  to  your  imagination.  Think  of 
gardens  and  forests,  hung  with  myriads  of  diamonds — 
nay,  every  tree,  every  branch,  every  stem  and  twig,  a 
perfect,  polished  crystal,  and  the  full,  glorious  moon, 
and  all  the  host  of  evening,  down  in  the  very  midst  of 
them — and  you  will  know  what  I  am  looking  at.  I  am 
all  eye  and  thought,  but  have  no  voice,  no  words  to 
convey  to  you  an  impression  of  what  I  see  and  feel 
— No,  I'll  not  envy  you  again !  What  a  picture  for 
mortal  eyes  to  look  on  undimmed  !  The  eagle,  that 


A    NEW-ENGLAXD    AVINTER-SCEXE.  77 

goes  up  at  noon-day  to  the  sun,  would  be  amazed  in  its 
effulgence.  It  is  the  coronation-eye  of  winter — and 
nature  has  opened  her  casket,  and  poured  out  every 
dazzling  gem,  and  brilliant  in  her  keeping,  and  hung  out 
all  her  rain-bow  drops,  and  lighted  up  every  lamp,  and 
they  are  all  glowing,  twinkling,  sparkling,  flashing  to- 
gether, like  legions  of  spiritual  eyes,  glancing  from 
world  to  world,  in  such  unearthly  rivalry,  that  the  eye, 
even  of  the  mind,  turns  away  from  it,  pained  and  wea- 
ry with  beholding.  There — look — but  I  can  say  no 
more,  my  words  are  consumed,  drunk  up  in  this  unut- 
terable glory,  like  morning  mist  when  the  sun  looks 
on  it ! 


LOCH  KATRINE. 


AN  eminence  in  the  road  afforded  us  the  first  view  of 
Lock  Katrine,  a  blue  and  bright  expanse  of  water,  cra- 
dled among  lofty  hills,  though  moderate  both  in  point 
of  altitude  and  boldness,  when  contrasted  with  those 
which  had  already  been  seen.  The  first  feature  that 
arrested  attention,  was  the  peculiar  complexion  of  the 
water,  which  is  cerulean,  and  differs  several  shades 
from  that  of  the  other  Scottish  lakes.  Its  hue  is  pro- 
bably modified  by  the  verdure  upon  the  shores,  as  well 
as  by  the  geological  structure  of  its  bed,  in  which  there 
is  little  or  no  mud.  Like  some  of  our  own  pellucid 
waters,  it  is  a  Naiad  of  the  purest  kind,  sleeping  on 
coral  and  crystal  couches.  Its  blue  tinge  was  doubt- 
less in  some  degree  heightened  by  the  distance  whence 
it  was  first  descried,  as  well  as  by  the  deep  azure  of 
the  skies  after  the  late  storm. 

Hastening  to  the  shore,  we  waited  some  time  for  the 
oarsmen,  who  accompanied  us  from  Loch  Lomond,  to 
bring  out  their  boat  from  behind  a  little  promontory, 
which  for  aught  I  know,  was  the  very  place  where 
Rob  Roy  and  Ellen  Douglas  used  to  hide  their  canoes. 
There  is  no  house  within  several  miles  of  the  landing. 
The  only  building  of  any  kind  is  a  small  temporary 
hut,  of  rude  construction,  serving  as  a  poor  shelter  in 
case  of  rain.  As  this  lake  has  become  a  fashionable 
resort,  one  would  suppose  the  number  of  travellers 
would  justify  the  expense  of  a  boatman's  house,  which 


LOCH    KATRINE.  79 

would  relieve  the  oarsmen  from  the  trouble  of  walking 
half  a  dozen  miles,  and  the  tourist  from  the  vexation  of 
paying  for  it. 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  seven  of  us,  includ- 
ing the  boat's  crew,  embarked,  and  commenced  a 
voyage  to  the  foot  of  the  lake,  a  distance  of  nine  miles 
in  a  south-eastern  direction.  Winds  and  waves  both 
conspired  to  accelerate  our  progress,  and  no  Highland 
bark  probably  ever  bounded  more  merrily  over  the  blue 
billows.  The  cone  of  Ben-Lomond  rapidly  receded, 
and  Ben-venue  and  Ben-an,  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
outlet,  came  more  fully  in  view.  At  the  head,  Glen- 
gyle  opens  prettily  from  the  north-west,  with  serrated 
hills  forming  the  lofty  ramparts  of  the  pass,  in  the  en- 
trance of  which  is  a  seat  belonging  to  one  of  the  de- 
scendants of  Rob  Roy  M'Gregor.  The  width  of  the 
lake  is  about  two  miles,  with  deeply  indented  shores, 
which  are  generally  bold  and  romantic,  exhibiting  occa- 
sionally scattered  houses  and  patches  of  cultivation, 
particularly  on  the  north-eastern  borders.  Our  course 
was  nearest  the  south-western  side,  touching  at  one 
little  desolate  promontory,  to  exchange  boats,  and  often 
approaching  so  close,  as  to  enable  us  to  examine  the 
scanty  growth  upon  the  margin. 

In  about  two  hours  from  the  time  of  embarkation, 
we  reached  Ellen's  Island,  near  the  outlet ;  and  half 
encircling  the  green  eminence,  rising  beautifully  from 
the  bosom  of  the  lake,  our  Highland  mariners  made  a 
port  in  the  identical  little  bay,  where  the  far-famed 
heroine  was  wont  to  moor  her  skiff,  fastening  it  to  an 
oak,  which  still  hangs  its  aged  arms  over  the  flood. 
This  miniature  harbor  is  also  signalized,  as  the  place 
where  Helen  Stuart  cut  off  the  head  of  one  of  Crom- 


80          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

well's  soldiers.  As  the  story  goes,  all  the  women  and 
children  fled  hither  for  refuge.  After  a  decisive  victo- 
ry, one  of  the  veterans  of  the  Protector  attempted  to 
swim  to  the  island  for  a  boat,  with  an  intention  of  pil- 
laging and  laying  waste  the  asylum  ;  but  as  lie  ap- 
proached the  shore  the  above  mentioned  heroine,  step- 
ped from  her  ambuscade,  and  with  one  stroke  of  her 
dirk  decapitated  the  marauder,  thus  rescuing  her  nar- 
row dominion  with  its  tenants  from  destruction. 

The  Island  is  small  and  rises  perhaps  fifty  feet  above 
the  water.  It  rests  on  a  basis  of  granite,  covered  with 
a  thin  coat  of  earth,  through  which  the  rocks  occasion- 
ally appear,  and  which  affords  scanty  nutriment  to  a 
growth  of  oak,  birch,  and  mountain  ash.  The  red  ber- 
ries of  the  latter  hung  gracefully  over  the  cliffs,  in  ma- 
ny places  shaded  with  brown  heath.  A  winding  path- 
way leads  to  the  summit,  which  is  beautifully  tufted, 
and  affords  a  charming  view  of  the  surrounding  hills 
and  waters. 

In  a  little  secluded  copse  near  the  top  stands  Ellen's 
Bower,  fashioned  exactly  according  to  the  description 
of  the  same  object  in  the  Lady  of  the  Lake.  Those 
who  are  curious  to  form  a  minute  and  accurate  image 
of  it,  have  only  to  turn  to  that  picture.  The  exterior 
is  composed  of  unhewn  logs  or  sticks  of  fir,  fantastical- 
ly arranged,  with  a  thatched,  moss-covered  roof,  and 
skins  of  beasts  converted  into  semi-transparent  parch- 
ment fur  windows.  Every  thing  within  is  in  rustic 
style.  A  living  aspen  grows  in  the  centre,  and  sup- 
ports the  ceiling.  Upon  its  branches  hangs  a  great 
variety  of  ancient  armor,  with  trophies  of  the  chase. 
Here  may  be  seen  the  Lochaber  axe,  Rob  Roy's  dirk, 
and  sundry  other  curiosities.  A  table  strewed  with 


LOCH    KATRINE.  81 

leaves  extends  nearly  the  whole  length  of  the  bower. 
The  walls  are  hung  with  shields,  and  the  skins  of  vari- 
ous animals.  Chairs  and  sofas  woven  of  osiers  fill  the 
apartment.  The  chimney  is  formed  of  sticks,  and  the 
head  of  a  stag  with  his  branching  horns  decorates  the 
mantlepiece.  Half  an  hour  was  passed  in  lolling  upon 
Ellen's  sofas,  and  in  examining  her  domestic  arrange- 
ments. 

Bidding  a  lingering  farewell  to  the  sweet  little  island, 
we  again  embarked  and  soon  completed  the  residue  of 
our  voyage.  The  foot  of  Loch  Katrine  is  very  roman- 
tic and  beautiful.  Innumerable  hills  of  moderate  ele- 
vation raise  their  grey,  pointed  peaks  around  and  above 
a  deeply  wooded  glen,  opening  towards  the  south-east 
and  forming  the  outlet  of  the  lake.  The  highest  of 
these  are  Ben-venue  and  Ben-an,  rising  on  each  side  of 
the  pass.  Both  are  fine  mountains,  something  like  two 
thousand  feet  in  height,  with  naked  masses  of  granite 
overhanging  wild  and  woody  bases.  From  the  great 
number  of  peaks  or  pikes  which  are  crowded  into  this 
narrow  district,  it  has  been  called  the  Trosachs,  or 
bristled  region.  The  lake  is  here  reduced  to  less  than 
half  a  mile  in  width,  sheltered  on  all  sides  from  the 
winds  by  high  promontories,  jutting  so  far  into  the  wa- 
ter, as  to  appear  like  a  group  of  islands. 

Towards  the  north-west,  the  eye  looks  up  the  glen 
of  Strathgartney,  in  which  tradition  says  that  the  grey 
charger  of  Fitz-James  fell.  The  boatman  gravely  in- 
formed us,  that  his  bones  are  to  be  seen  to  this  day  ! 
Such  stories,  and  the  sketches  of  certain  topographers, 
have  afforded  us  an  infinite  fund  of  amusement. 

We  landed  at  the  foot  of  Loch  Katrine,  and  after 
walking  a  mile  and  a  half  readied  our  hotel. 
8 


WORSHIP. 

By  Asa  Cummin's. 

THAT  heart  must  be  desolate  indeed,  which  is  a  stran- 
ger to  devotion.  Were  it  possible  to  remain  undevout, 
and  at  the  same  time  not  be  criminal,  it  were  still  a 
state  of  mind  most  earnestly  to  be  deprecated.  It  is  a 
joyless  condition,  to  live  without  God  in  the  world  ;  to 
be  unsusceptible  to  the  attractions  of  his  moral  excel- 
lence ;  to  pass  the  time  of  our  sojourning  in  a  world  of 
trial,  without  ever  communing  with  the  Father  of  our 
spirits,  or  voluntarily  casting  ourselves  on  an  Almighty 
arm  for  support,  and  breathing  forth  to  the  Author  of 
our  being,  the  language  of  supplication  and  praise. 

And  how  is  the  effect  of  devotion  heightened  by  the 
junction  of  numbers  in  the  same  service — even  of  the 
•'  multitude  who  keep  holy  day  !"  A  scene,  so  hono- 
rable to  Him  "  who  inhabiteth  the  praises  of  Israel," 
so  tit  in  itself,  so  congruous  to  man's  social  nature  and 
dependant  condition,  so  impressive  on  the  actors  and 
spectators,  and  so  salutary  in  its  influence, — awakened 
in  the  "  sweet  singer  of  Israel,"  the  most  ardent  long- 
ings for  the  courts  of  the  Lord,  and  constituted  the 
glowing  theme  of  more  than  one  of  his  unrivalled  songs. 
Nay,  under  the  influence  of  that  inspiration  which 
prompted  his  thoughts  and  guided  his  pen,  he  does  not 
hesitate  to  affirm  : — "  The  Lord  loveth  the  gates  of  Zi- 
<>)i  more  than  aU  the  dwellings  of  Jacob.* 


WORSHIP.  83 

Far  from  us  be  the  thought  of  casting  upon  the 
Psalmist  the  imputation  of  undervaluing  himself,  or  of 
designing  to  lead  his  fellow-men  to  undervalue  domes- 
tic or  private  worship.  Every  contrite  heart  is  an 
abode  where  God  delights  to  dwell — a  temple  where 
he  abides  and  operates — a  chosen  habitation,  where  he 
reveals  his  love  and  displays  his  grace.  It  is  a  com- 
placent sight  to  the  Father  of  spirits,  to  behold  one 
prodigal  returning,  to  see  an  individual  prostrate  before 
him,  and  lifting  up  his  cry  for  pardon  and  spiritual 
strength.  It  is  pleasing  in  his  eyes  to  see  a  family 
at  their  morning  and  evening  devotions,  pouring  out 
their  souls  with  all  the  workings  of  pious  affection,  and 
the  various  pleadings  of  faith.  No  sweeter  incense 
than  this,  ever  ascends  to  heaven.  When,  therefore, 
God  expresses  his  preference  for  the  worship  of  the 
sanctuaiy,  it  is  not  the  quality  which  he  regards,  but 
the  degree ;  not  the  kind  of  influence  exerted,  but  the 
amount.  In  the  sanctuary  is  the  concentrated  devotion 
of  many  hearts.  Here  are  more  minds  to  be  wrought 
upon  ;  here  is  a  wider  scope  for  the  operation  of  truth  ; 
here  a  light  is  raised  which  is  seen  from  afar,  and  at- 
tracts the  gaze  of  distant  beholders,  as  the  temple  on 
the  summit  of  Moriah,  "  fretted  with  golden  fires," 
arrested  the  eye  of  the  distant  traveller.  Here  is  a 
public,  practical  declaration  to  all  the  world,  that  there 
is  a  God,  and  that  adoration  and  service  are  his  due. 

In  the  sanctuary  the  Creator  and  the  creature  are 
brought  near  to  each  other.  The  character  and  per- 
fections of  God,  his  law  and  government,  the  wonders 
of  his  providence,  the  riches  of  his  grace,  the  duty  and 
destiny  of  man,  are  brought  directly  before  the  mind 
by  the  "  lively  oracles."  "  Beholding,  as  in  a  glass, 


84          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

the  glory  of  the  Lord,  we  are  changed  into  the  same 
image."  Truth,  enforced  by  the  energies  of  the  life- 
giving  Spirit,  "  is  quick  and  powerful."  God  "  pours 
water  on  them  that  are  thirsty  ;"'  and  in  fulfilment  of 
the  prophetic  word,  "  young  men  and  maidens,  old 
men  and  children,"  awakened  to  "  newness  of  life," 
spring  up  "  as  willows  by  the  water-courses,"  and 
flock  to  the  Refuge  of  souls,  "  as  doves  to  their  win- 
dows." A  spectacle  this,  well  pleasing  to  God,  and 
cheering  to  the  hearts  of  his  friends  on  earth — none 
more  so  this  side  heaven.  None  produces  such  a  com- 
mingling of  wonder,  love,  humility,  and  gratitude  ;  none 
calls  forth  such  adoring  thankfulness ;  none  makes  the 
songs  of  the  temple  below  so  like  that  new  song  of 
Moses  and  the  Lamb,  which  is  perpetually  sung  before 
the  throne  above.  Heaven  is  brought  down  to  earth — 
eternity  takes  hold  on  time  ;  this  world  yields  its  usurp- 
ed throne  in  the  hearts  of  men,  and  Jehovah  reigns  tri- 
umphant, the  Lord  of  their  affections.  "  The  power 
and  glory  of  God  are  seen  in  the  sanctuary." 

Here,  too,  are  ample  provisions  to  meet  all  future; 
wants — moral  means  to  restore  the  wandering,  to  re- 
cover the  spiritually  faint,  to  refresh  and  fortify  their 
souls  to  sustain  the  conflict  with  temptation,  to  inspire 
the  heart  with  religious  joy,  to  nourish  that  spiritual 
life  which  has  dawned  in  their  souls.  Here  is  the 
"  sincere  milk  of  the  word,"  on  which  they  may 
;t  grow  ;"  the  significant  ordinances,  so  quickening  to 
the  affections,  so  invigorating  to  man's  spiritual  nature. 
The  Baptismal  water  affects  the  heart  through  the  me- 
dium of  the  eye,  and  enforces  the  worshipper's  obli- 
gation to  abjure  the  world,  and  to  be  pure  as  Christ 
is  pure.  The  Emblematic  Feast,  exhibiting  "  Jesus 


WORSHIP.  85 

Christ  set  forth  crucified  before  his  eyes," — while  it 
affectingly  reminds  him  of  his  lost  condition  as  a  sin- 
ner, contains  an  impressive  demonstration  of  the  power 
and  grace  of  his  Deliverer,  "  in  whom  we  have  re- 
demption through  his  blood."  His  faith  fastens  itself 
on  this  sacrifice.  He  is  loosed  from  the  bondage  of 
sin  ;  his  "  soul  is  satisfied  as  with  marrow  and  fatness." 
His  fellowship  is  with  the  Father,  and  with  the  Son. 
He  has  communion  with  the  saints.  He  derives  new 
support  to  his  fainting  faith,  and  goes  on  his  pilgrim- 
age rejoicing. 

The  entire  exercises  and  scenes  of  the  house  of  wor- 
ship— the  reading  of  the  scriptures,  the  confessions, 
prayers,  and  praises,  the  songs  of  the  temple — for  "  as 
well  the  singers  as  the  players  on  instruments "  are 
there  * — the  preaching  of  the  gospel,  the  celebration  of 
the  sacraments, — all  combine  their  aid  to  strengthen 
pious  principle,  holy  purpose,  virtuous  habit,  and  to 
render  the  children  of  God  "  perfect,  thoroughly  fur- 
nished to  every  good  work."  The  place,  the  day,  the 
multitude,  the  power  of  sympathy,  all  conspire  to  give 
effect  to  truth,  and  to  rouse  them  up  to  labor  for  God, 
for  their  species,  for  eternity  :  all  combine  to  render 
the  house  of  God  "  the  gate  of  heaven,"  the  image  of 
heaven,  and  a  precious  antepast  of  the  enjoyments  of 
heaven ! 

"  My  willing  soul  would  stay 

In  such  a  frame  as  this, 
And  sit,  and  sing  herself  away 

To  everlasting  blisi." 

•Psalm  Ixxxrii,  7. 

8* 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SILENCE. 


It  w.u  a  perfect  E  le:i  tor  b;iuty.  The  scent  of  flowers  came  up  on  the  gale,  the  swift  strea:--. 
»p;u-kled  like  a  flow  of  diamonds  in  the  sun,  and  a  amile  of  soft  light  glistened  on  every  leal 
«n  I  Wn.de,  is  they  drink  in  the  life-giving  ray.  lu  significant  loveliness  was  eloquent  10  the 
t-/e  and  th<?  heart— but  a  strange  deep  silence  reigned  over  it  all.  So  perfect  was  the  un- 
earthly «-j!'nieis,  yoj  co  lid  almost  hear  yourself  think.— Ka.Uih.din. 

HAS  thy  foot  ever  trod  that  silent  deli  \ 

vfis  a  place  for  the  voiceless  thought  to  swell 

And  the  eloquent  song  to  go  up  unspoken, 

Like  the  incense  of  flowers  whose  urns  are  broken  ; 

And  the  unveiled  heart  may  look  in,  and  see, 

In  that  deep  strange  silence,  its  motions  free, 

And  learn  how  the  pure  in  spirit  feel 

That  unseen  Presence  to  which  they  kneel. 

Xo  sound  goes  up  from  the  quivering  trees, 
When  they  spread  their  arms  to  the  welcome  breeze  ; 
They  wave   in  the  Zephyr — they  bow  to  the  blast — 
But  they  breathe  not  a  word  of  the  power  that  passed  ; 
And  their  leaves  come  down  on  the  turf  and  the  stream, 
With  as  noiseless  a  fall  as  the  step  of  a  dream  ; 
And  the  breath  that  is  bending  the  grass  and  the  flowers, 
Moves  o'er  them  as  lightly  as  evening  hours. 

The  merry  bird  lights  down  on  that  dell, 

And,  hushing  his  breath,  lest  the  song  should  swell, 

Sits  with  folded  wing  in  the  balmy  shade, 

Like  a  musical  thought  in  the  soul  unsaid. 

And  they  of  strong  pinion  and  loftier  flight, 

Pass  over  that  valley,  like  clouds  in  the  night — 

They  move  not  a  wing  in  that  solemn  sky, 

But  sail  in  a  reverent  silence  bv. 


THE    VALLEY    OF    SILENCE.  87 

The  deer,  in  his  flight,  has  passed  that  way, 

And  felt  the  deep  spell's  mysterious  sway — 

He  hears  not  the  rush  of  the  path  he  cleaves, 

Nor  his  bounding  step  on  the  trampled  leaves. 

The  hare  goes  up  on  that  sunny  hill, 

And  the  footsteps  of  morning  are  not  more  still, 

And  the  wild,  and  the  fierce,  and  the  mighty  are  there, 

Unheard  in  the  hush  of  that  slumbering  air. 

The  stream  rolls  down  in  that  valley  serene, 
Content  in  its  beautiful  flow  to  be  seen, 
And  its  fresh  flowery  banks,  and  its  pebbly  bed 
Were  never  yet  told  of  its  fountain  head  ; 
And  it  still  rushes  on — but  they  ask  not  why, 
With  its  smile  of  light,  it  is  hurrying  by  ; 
Still,  gliding,  or  leaping,  unwhispered,  unsung, 
Like  the  flow  of  bright  fancies,  it  flashes  along. 

The  wind  sweeps  by,  and  the  leaves  are  stirred, 
But  never  a  whisper  or  sigh  is  heard  ; 
And  when  its  strong  rush  laid  low  the  oak, 
Not  a  murmur  the  eloquent  stillness  broke. 
And  the  gay  young  echoes — those  mockers  that  lie 
In  the  dark  mountain-sides — make  no  reply, 
But,  hushed  in  their  caves,  they  are  listening  still 
For  the  songs  of  that  valley  to  burst  o'er  the  hill. 

I  love  society ; — I  am  o'erblest  to  hear 
The  mingling  voices  of  a  world  ;  mine  ear 
Drinks  in  their  music  with  a  spiritual  taste  ; 
I  love  companionship  on  life's  dark  waste, 
And  could  not  live  unheard  ; — yet  that  still  vale — 
[t  had  no  fearful  mystery  in  its  tale ; — 
Its  hush  was  grand,  not  awful,  as  if  there 
The  voice  of  nature  were  a  breathing  prayer. 
'Twas  like  a  holy  temple,  where  the  pure 
Might  blend  in  their  heart-worship,  and  be  sure 
No  sound  of  earth  could  come — a*oul  kept  still, 
In  faith's  unanswcring  meekness,  for  heaven's  will, 
Its  eloquent  thoughts  sent  upward  and  abroad, 
But  all  its  deep  hushed  voices  kept  for  God ! 


DESCRIPTIONS  OF  THE  DIVINE  BEING. 

Bj  Gershom  F.  Cox. 

IT  is  a  difficult  task  to  shadow  forth  spirit.  The  best 
emblems  of  the  earth  can  give  but  faint  and  distant 
views  of  its  incomprehensible  nature.  Our  own  con- 
sciousness, too,  must  fail  to  give  us  adequate  notions 
of  the  mysterious  traits  of  its  character.  Aided  by  the 
brightest  images  of  earth,  or  the  most  subtle  principles 
of  philosophy,  who  can  bring  to  view  any  tolerably 
good  picture  of  a  HUMAN  SOUL  ! — who  can  draw  the 
outlines  of  thought ! — thought  that  is  as  immeasurable 
as  the  universe  ! — thought  that  could  encompass,  with 
more  than  the  quickness  of  the  lightning's  flash,  all  that 
(rod  has  made  ! — thought  that  gives  to  us,  at  once,  the 
gravity  of  the  merest  atom,  the  beauties  and  properties 
of  the  petal  of  a  single  flower,  or  the  structure,  density, 
size  and  weight  of  the  worlds  that  border  on  the  out- 
skirts of  our  own  universe  ;  and  when  it  has  done  its 
noble  work,  as  if  plumed  for  fresh  conquests,  stretches 
itself  far  beyond  the  material  universe,  into  the  deep 
solitudes  of  eternity,  in  quest  of  something  more ! 
Who,  we  ask  again,  can  give  the  outlines  of  thought  1 
Who  can  tell  us  of  its  yet  hidden  resources  ;  or  of  a 
mini'  like  that  of  Newton,  or  of  Bacon,  which,  after 
they  had  taken  from  the  arcana  of  nature  some  of  her 
most  hidden  principles,  u  entered  the  secret  place  of 
the  Most  High,  and  lodged  beneath  the  shadow  of  the 
Almighty  1 "  How  much  less,  then,  can  we  give  just 
descriptions  of  the  DEITY  !  How  can  we  describe  Him 


DESCRIPTIONS    OF    THE    DIVINE    BEING.  89 

"•  who  covercth  himself  with  LIGHT  as  with  a  garment," 
— whom  no  man  hath  seen,  nor  can  see. 

We  are  aware  that  every  thing  speaks  of  a  God. 
All  nature  has  its  language  ;  and  however  dark  the 
alphabet,  it  still  speaks,  and  speaks  every  where  ;  for 
there  is  no  place  where  he  has  not  "  left  a  witness.11 
We  acknowledge,  too,  that  the  only  reason  why  the 
deep  tones  of  nature  arc  not  more  audible,  may  be 
found  in  the  imbecilities  or  transgressions  of  man. 
But,  while  the  babbling  brook  hath  its  story  to  tell  of  its 
Maker,  and  the  willow  that  bends  and  sighs  by  its  side, 
and  the  pebble  o'er  which  the  streamlet  rolls  ; — while 
the  glorious  dew-drop  has  its  power  of  speech — the 
soft  south  breeze,  and  "  the  hoar-frost  of  heaven  ; " 
while  the  deep  vale  may  offer  its  chorus  to  the  waving 
corn,  or  to  the  lofty  summit  by  its  side  ;  while  often 
may  be  heard  the  full  notes  of  the  angry  tempest,  and 
of  the  tornado  as  it  sweeps  by  us,  carrying  fearful  de- 
solation in  its  path;  although  these  may  all  speak  for- 
cibly of  the  power,  of  the  goodness,  of  the  wisdom,  of 
the  terrible  justice  of  God ;  yet,  without  divine  revela- 
tion, like  the  inscription  at  Athens,  they  only  point  to 
a  God  UNKNOWN.  The  awful  precipice,  where 

"  Leaps  the  live  thunder." 

in  the  hour  of  the  tempest,  doth  but  stun  the  intellect 
of  man  with  its  overhanging  and  dizzy  heights.  And 
"  the  sound  of  many  waters,"  or  "  the  deep,  lifting  up 
his  hands  on  high," — although  they  may  arouse  every 
passion  of  the  spirit,  and  address  it  as  with  the  voice  of 
God  ;  yet,  to  man,  these  all  want  an  interpreter.  Lo  ! 
these  arc  but  parts  of  his  ways."  But  what  a  mere 
"  whisper  of  the  matter  is  heard  in  it,  and  the  thunder 
of  his  power  who  can  understand  !" 


90          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

Nature  speaks — we  repeat  it — but  her  language,  to 
us,  is  often  indefinite  ;  like  the  dream  of  Nebuchad- 
nezzar, it  may  arouse  the  spirit  to  inquiry — agitate 
every  passion  to  consternation;  but  without  a  Daniel  to 
interpret  her  admonitions,  "  the  thing  is  passed  from 
us."  Else  why  this  gross  ignorance  of  the  character 
of  God  among  even  the  enlightened,  or  rather  civilized, 
nations  of  antiquity  I  Why  did  not  Egypt,  when  all 
the  "wisdom  of  the  east"  was  concentrated  in  her 
sons,  have  some  notions  of  the  Deity  that  would  have 
raised  their  minds  above  the  serpent  or  crocodile,  or 
some  insignificant  article  of  the  vegetable  creation  1 
Why  did  not  the  savage,  roaming  in  the  freedom  of  his 
interminable  forests,  have  some  correct  views  of  God  1 
lie  had  talked  with  the  sun,  and  heard  the  roar  of  the 
tempest ;  the  evening  sky  in  its  grandeur  was  an  ever- 
lasting map  spread  out  before  him,  and  the  broad  lake 
mirrored  back  to  him  its  glories.  Rut  how  confused — 
how  degraded  were  the  loftiest  notions  of  the  Deity, 
among  the  most  powerful  of  Indian  minds  ! 

But  I  have  already  strayed  from  my  purpose.  I  in- 
tended only  to  give  a  specimen  or  two,  of  attempted 
descriptions  of  the  Deity,  for  the  purpose  of  showing 
the  infinite  superiority  of  those  contained  in  the  bible, 
above  every  other  in  the  world. 

It  ought,  however,  to  be  recollected,  that  the  descrip- 
tions we  find  among  heathen  authors,  are  doubtless 
more  or  less  indebted  to  sentiments  borrowed  from  the 
Jewish  scriptures ;  although  we  believe  the  contrast 
will  show  that  they  have  passed  through  heathen  hands. 
One  of  the  most  sublime  to  be  met  with  in  the  world, 
out  of  the  bible,  was  engraved  in  hieroglyphics  upon 
the  temple  of  Ncith,  the  Egyptian  Minerva.  It  is  as 
follows : 


DESCRIPTIONS    OF    THE    DIVINE    BEING.  91 

"  I  am  that  which  is,  was,  and  shall  be  :  no  mortal 
hath  lifted  up  my  veil :  the  offspring  of  my  power  is 
the  sun." 

A  similar  inscription  still  remains  at  Capua,  on  the 
temple  of  Isis  : 

"  Thou  art  one,  and  from  thee  all  things  proceed." 

In  the  above,  evident  traces  are  to  be  seen  of  the 
Hebrew  term  JEHOVAH.  Some  of  Homer's  descrip- 
tions have  their  excellencies ;  but  they  all  suffer  from 
the  fact,  that  he  clothes  the  deities  he  describes,  not 
only  with  human  passions,  but  with  human  appetites 
of  the  most  degrading  character.  And  he  never  seems 
more  satisfied  with  himself  than  when  he  represents 
them  heated  for  war !  "  Warring  gods,"  when  placed 
at  the  foot  of  Calvary,  or  contrasted  with  any  just  de- 
scription of  the  true  God,  is  certainly  a  revolting  idea ; 
and  it  is  still  worse  to  introduce  them  as  does  Homer, 
with  the  shuddering  thought  that, 

"  Gods  on  gods  exert  eternal  rage  I  " 

And  our  impressions  are  scarcely  more  favorable 
when  he  presents  us  with  an  wnincarnate,  and  yet 
"  bleeding  god,"  retiring  from  the  field  of  battle, 
"* pierced  with  Grecian  darts,"  "  though  fatal,  not  to 
die."  The  following  from  this  author  is  singular  in- 
deed : 

"  Of  lawless  force  shall  lawless  MARS  complain  ? 

Of  all  the  most  unjust,  most  odious  in  our  eyes  ! 

In  human  discord  is  thy  dire  delight, 

The  wa»te  of  slaughter,  and  the  rage  of  fight. 

No  bound,  no  law  thy  fiery  tempei  quells, 

And  all  tliy  motlier  in  thy  soul  rebels  1  "  —Illiad,  Book    5. 

The  following  is  far  less  exceptionable : 

"  And  know,  the  Almighty  is  the  God  of  gods. 
I-eague  all  your  forces  then,  ye  powers  above, 
Join  all,  and  try  the  omnipotence  of  Jove  ; 


THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 


Ye  . 

I  hei 

I   fix  the  ch.ui,  la  great  Olyni]  >  -'  h< 

Ami   the  vast  wi.rl.l  hangs  tieniLlinsr  in  my  sight  ! 

For  such  1  reign  uiibouml.il  an.l  alx.v  ; 

Ami  Mich  are  men,  ami  guils.  o>mpure,1  in  Jove."— 111.  h.  vi. 

Some  of  the  above  ideas  are  certainly  sublime,  anil 
considering  the  age  that  produced  them,  they  have  no 
superior  but  the  bible. 

As  the  KORAN  has  attained  considerable  celebrity, 
we  should  hardly  be  pardoned  should  we  not  notice  it. 
The  passage  on  which  the  Mohammedan  rests  his 
whole  faith,  for  sublimity,  and  which  is  confessedly 
unapproached  by  any  thing  else  in  the  koran,  is  the 
following : 

"  God !  There  is  no  God  but  he  ;  the  living,  the 
self-subsisting  ;  neither  slumber  nor  sleep  seizeth  him  ; 
to  him  belongeth  whatsoever  is  in  heaven,  and  on  earth. 
Who  is  he  that  can  intercede  with  him  but  through  his 
good  pleasure)  He  knoweth  that  which  is  past,  and 
that  which  is  to  come.  His  throne  is  extended  over 
heaven  and  earth,  and  the  preservation  of  both  is  to 
him  no  burden.  He  is  the  High,  the  Mighty." 

If  the  above  passage  contained  a  single  original 
thought,  it  might  entitle  it  to  higher  praise  than  it  can 
now  receive.  But  as  there  is  no  thought  expressed,  but 
may  be  found  in  the  book  of  Job,  or  among  the  inimita- 
ble Psalms  of  David,  written  from  sixteen  hundred  to 
two  thousand  years  before  Mohammed,  and  which  this 
pretended  prophet  had  before  him — and  as  we  can 
hardly  allow  their  originality  of  expression — the  only 
praise  that  can  be  bestowed  upon  its  author  is,  that  of 
having  studied  the  Jewish  scriptures  pretty  closely,  a 


DESCRIPTIONS    OF    THE    DIVINE    BEING.  93 

fact  that  is  exhibited  throughout  his  famous  production. 
But  while  we  acknowledge  that  this  is  a  brilliant  pas- 
sage, it  evidently  does  not  surpass,  nor  even  equal,  ei- 
ther of  the  following,  selected  from  our  own  times. 

"  Eternal  Spirit  1    God  of  truth  I  to  whom 
All  things  seem  as  they  are.    Tliou  who  nfold 
The  prophet's  eye  unsealed,  that  nightly  sa.w 
•While  heavy  sleep  fell  down  on  other  met,, 
In  holy  vision  tranced,  the  future  pass 
Before  him,  and  to  Judah's  harp  attuned 
Burdens  which  make  the  pagan  mountaips  shake, 
And  Zion's  cedars  bow, — inspire  my  song  ; 
Sly  eye  unscale  ;  me  what  is  substance  teach, 
And  shadow  what,  while  I  of  things  to  come, 
As  past  rehearsing,  sing  the  course  of  time. 
—Hold  my  right  hand,  Almighty  !  and  me  teach 

To  strike  the  lyre to  notes 

Which  wake  the  echoes  of  Eternity.— Pollok. 

In  the  above  extracts  there  is  this  remarkable  diffe- 
rence :  Mohammed,  in  his  description  of  Deity,  has  no 
thought  that  refers  to  a  moral  perfection  of  God  !  And 
indeed  gross  sensuality,  and  a  destitution  of  high  and 
spiritual  views,  characterize  his  whole  work. 

But  with  Pollok,  the  first  thought  is  SPIRIT — a  second, 
TRUTH.  And  aside  from  this  peculiarity,  although  you 
turn  over  every  leaf  of  the  koran,  we  affirm  that  you 
cannot  find  so  sublime  a  conception  as  the  following: 

"  Hold  my  right  hand,  Almightf  t  and  me  teach 

To  strike  the  lyre,- to  notes 

That  wake  the  echoes  of  eternity." 

But  how  infinitely,  both  in  grandeur  and  simplicity, 
do  all  these  fall  short  of  the  inimitable  original  of  most 
of  these,  penned  by  David  of  the  Old,  or  Paul  of  the 
New  Testament. 

"  O,  my  God,  take  me  not  away  in  the  midst  of  my 
days :  THY  years  are  throughout  all  generations.  Of 
old  hast  THOU  laid  the  foundations  of  the  earth,  and  the 
9 


94         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

heavens  are  the  work  of  thine  hands.  They  shall 
perish,  but  THOU  shalt  endure ;  yea,  all  of  them  shall 
wax  old  like  a  garment ;  as  a  vesture  shalt  thou  change 
them,  and  they  shall  be  changed.  BUT  THOU  ART  THE 

SAME,  AND  THY  YEARS  SHALL  HAVE  NO  END." 

"  Who  is  the  blessed  and  only  Potentate,  the  King 
of  kings,  and  the  Lord  of  lords  ;  who  only  hath  IMMOR- 
TALITY, dwelling  in  Light  which  no  man  can  approach 
unto, — whom  no  man  hath  seen,  nor  can  see  ! " 

Or  as  in  another  place,  "  The  King  eternal,  immor- 
tal, invisible, — the  only  wise  God." 

In  the  above  specimens,  there  is  a  grandeur  and 
simplicity  not  to  be  found  in  any  merely  human  com- 
position. 

The  following  is  very  fine,  from  Habakkuk  : 

"  Gixl  came  from  Teman, 

The  Holy  One  from  Mount  Parau. 

His  glory  covered  the  heavens, 

And  his  praise  filled  the  earth. 

His  brightness  was  like  the  sun, 

Out  of  his  hand  [or  side]  came  flashes  of  lightning-, 

And  there  was  only  the  veil  of  hi«  might. 

Before  him  walked  the  pestilence, 

And  burning  coals  went  forth  at  his  feet. 

He  stood,  and  the  earth  was  moved  j 

He  looked,  and  caused  the  nations  to  quake. 

And  the  everlasting  mountains  were  broken  in  pieces, 

And  the  perpetual  hills  did  bow. 

His  goings  are  from  everlasting." 

We  scarcely  know  which  to  admire  most,  the  above 
or  the  following  from  the  same  author : 

'  The  mountains  saw  THEE  and  trembled, 

The  overflowing  waters  passed  away. 

The  deep  uttered  his  voice, 

And  lifted  up  his  hands  on  high. 

The  sun  and  moon  stood  still  in  their  habitations. 

At  the  shining  of  thine  arrows,  (i.  e.  the  lightnings,)  they  disappeared— 

At  the  brightness  of  thy  glittering  spear  !  " 

The  following  paraphrastic  reference  may  be  re- 
garded as  barren  in  some  respects,  compared  with  oth- 


DESCRIPTIONS    OF    THE    DIVINE    BEING.  95 

ers  that  might  be  selected  from  the  same  living  foun- 
tain. 

The  EVE  of  the  Supreme  Being  is  regarded  as  so 
piercing  as  to  pervade  heaven,  earth  and  hell,  and  the 
awful  depths  of  eternity.  His  COUNTENANCE  is  as  the 
sun  shining  in  his  strength.  The  wind,  in  its  endless 
whirl,  is  but  his  breath  or  breathing.  His  HAND  is  re- 
presented so  immense,  that  even  its  "  hollow "  will 
"contain  the  waters  of  the  great  deep," — and,  when 
"  spanned,"  he  "  measures  with  it  the  whole  heavens." 
While  "  sitting  in  the  circle  of  the  heavens,  the  earth 
is  represented  as  the  place  where  his  feet  rest.  So 
rapid  in  his  motion,  that  "  He  walks  upon  the  wings  of 
the  wind."  Of  such  awful  strength,  "that  the  earth, 
with  its  countless  inhabitants,  are  "  less  than  the  dust " 
that  accumulates  "  upon  the  balance."  At  one  time 
"  He  covereth  himself  with  light  as  with  a  garment, — 
and  at  another,  He  maketh  darkness  his  pavilion,  and 
the  thick  clouds  of  the  skies." 

These  however  are  images  all  borrowed  from  sensi- 
ble objects,  and,  magnificent  as  they  may  be,  they 
fail  of  throwing  upon  the  mind  a  full  image  of  Him 
who  hath  "  no  likeness  in  the  heavens  above,  nor  in  the 
earth  beneath."  And,  besides,  these  glowing  pictures 
present  to  the  mind  none  of  his  moral  attributes.  For 
a  description  of  these,  we  must  look  either  to  the 
events  of  his  providence,  or  a  more  particular  disclo- 
sure in  the  bible.  And  it  may  well  astonish  us,  that, 
after  the  lapse  of  more  than  three  thousand  years,  we 
may  look  in  vain  for  a  fuller  or  more  perfect  descrip- 
tion of  the  Divine  Being,  in  words,  than  is  given  by  MO- 
SES in  that  memorable  moment  upon  Mount  Sinai — 

"  Who*e  prey  top*  did  tremble,  when  God  ordained  iheir  laws." 


96          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

A  description  that  is  like  the  sun  rising  upon  the 
chaos  that  surrounded  him  in  the  Egyptian  mythology, 
which  at  that  time  was  so  gross  that  no  object  in  na- 
ture was  too  mean  for  a  deity.  But  "  in  the  midst  of 
this  darkness  that  might  be  felt,"  God  was  pleased  to 
reveal  himself  in  the  following  language,  at  once  suffi- 
ciently grave  and  impressive  to  afford  irrefragable  proof 
of  its  high  origin. 

Dim  hx  mn»  mrr  *on  yjfi-Sy  mi 


-TDH  -no  jriDKi  iDrrm  wzx  "pK  pjrn 
npy  xh  npji  nxtorn  ^21  py 


"  And  the  Lord  passed  by  before  him,  and  proclaim- 
ed, The  Lord,  The  Lord  God,  merciful  and  gracious, 
long-suffering,  and  abundant  in  goodness  and  truth, 
keeping  mercy  for  thousands,  forgiving  iniquity  and 
transgression  and  sin,  and  that  will  by  no  means  clear 
the  guilty  ;  visiting  the  iniquity  of  the  fathers  upon  the 
children,  and  upon  the  children's  children,  unto  the 
third  and  to  the  fourth  generation." 

Or,  as  these  striking  appellatives  of  the  Divine  Be- 
ing might  be  translated,  without  offering  any  violation 
to  the  Hebrew,  —  the  JEHOVAH,  the  STRONG  and  MIGHTY 
GOD,  the  merciful  ONE,  the  GRACIOUS  ONE,  the  long- 
suffering  ONE,  the  GREAT  and  MIGHTY  ONE,  the  BOUN- 
TIFUL BEING,  the  TRUE  ONE,  or  TRUTH,  the  Preserver 
of  BOUNTIFULNESS,  the  REDEEMER,  or  Pardoner,  the 
Righteous  JUDGE,  and  He  who  VISITS  INIQUITY. 

This  is  a  remarkable  description  indeed  to  come 


DESCRIPTIONS    OF    THE    DIVINE    BEING.  97 

from  one  educated  in  the  midst  of  Egyptian  mytholo- 
gy ;  and  the  awful  names  by  which  the  Supreme  Be- 
ing is  designated,  can  only  be  accounted  for,  under 
such  circumstances,  on  the  supposition  that  Moses  re- 
ceived them  directly  from  the  Almighty  himself. 

But  to  close  our  article.  The  Divine  Being  is  no- 
where so  perfectly,  so  interestingly  described  as  in  the 
CHARACTER  OF  CHRIST.  Here  LOVE  is  unbosomed  as 
it  could  not  be  by  language.  Here  heaven  drops  down 
to  earth  ;  and  the  otherwise  invisible  beauties  of  the 
invisible  God,  are  made  tangible  even  to  the  eye.  The 
arm  of  mercy,  outstretched  to  the  sinner — the  eye  of 
justice  softened  by  the  tear  of  mercy — the  heart  of  love 
beating  intensely  with  benignity,  as  well  as  every  per- 
fection of  the  divine  nature ;  are  all  laid  open  to  the 
view  of  sinful,  helpless  man,  and  we  become  "  eye 
witness  of  his  glorious  majesty."  Here  the  tears  of 
mercy  may  be  seen  dropping  upon  its  wretched  objects 
of  commiseration. ;  and  the  most  secret  emotions  of  the 
divine  mind,  we  may  behold,  heaving  in  the  bosom  of 
the  immaculate  Jesus.  Here  indeed  "  God  tabernacles 
and  walks  with  man."  And  as  a  confirmation  of  the 
glorious  truth,  at  beholding  Him,  "  the  sun  stood  still  in 
his  habitation."  "  The  sea  saw  him,  and  was  afraid." 
The  earth  trembled  at  his  presence,  and  gave  back  the 
dead  at  his  voice.  Well  indeed  might  one  exclaim,  to 
behold  such  a  personage,  "  My  LORD  AND  MY  GOD." 


9* 


THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


Bv  Charles  S.  Dareis. 


NEVER — -since  the  period  that  Csesar  conquered  Gaul, 
when  the  inhabitants  enjoyed  a  barbarian  license  under 
their  native  chiefs  and  druids,  had  the  voice  of  liberty 
been  heard  in  France,  till  the  14th  of  July,  1789.  Nev- 
er before  did  such  a  note  of  exultation  spread  over  the 
vine-covered  hills, — and  echo  among  the  beautiful  val- 
leys, of  that  fair  country.  Never  perhaps  before  was 
there  such  a  burden  lifted  from  the  minds  of  men.  In 
the  unwonted  consciousness  of  power,  they  seemed  to 
tread  a  new  earth.  In  the  intoxication  of  triumph  they 
burst  from  the  bonds  of  morality  and  humanity.  So 
very  singular,  and  strange,  indeed,  was  the  position  in 
which  the  people  of  France  were  placed  by  the  revolu- 
tion, that  their  vernacular  language  was  found  deficient 
in  the  appropriate  phraseology  of  freedom  ;  and  they 
were  obliged  to  resort  to  a  foreign  idiom,  and  to  the 
customs  of  other  climes,  and  the  usages  of  other  na- 
tions, and  to  ransack  the  regions  of  fancy  and  inven- 
tion, for  the  vocabulary,  as  well  as  the  drapery,  of  their 
new  republic. 

It  is  remarkable,  that  the  revolution  in  France,  be- 
ginning in  fact,  with  the  destruction  of  the  Bastile, 
should  end  in  the  re-establishment  of  despotism.  It 
was  a  revolution  indeed  not  more  remarkable  for  the 
original  character  of  its  cause,  than  its  catastrophe  ; 
lor  the  astonishing  contrast  it  exhibits  between  the 
-plendor  of  its  talents  and  the  atrocity  of  its  crimes  : 


THE    FRENCH    REVOLUTION.  99 

for  the  reverence  which  it  professed  for  antiquity,  and 
the  mischief  it  produced  to  posterity  ;  for  adopting  the 
most  enormous  maxims,  and  enforcing  them  by  the 
most  audacious  means ;  for-  the  use  which  it  made  of 
its  own  freedom  to  enslave  other  nations  to  its  law,  for 
erecting  the  empire  of  Rome  upon  the  democracy  of 
Athens,  for  the  adoption  of  a  model  of  colossal  gran- 
deur, and  establishing  the  most  tremendous  system  of 
policy,  that  ever  convulsed  human  kind  : — a  revolution, 
conspicuous  also  for  the  sudden  appearance  of  a  race 
of  men  springing  up  from  the  earth,  as  though  it  had 
been  sown  with  dragons'  teeth,  and  its  monstrous  fruits 
produced  with  hydras'  heads  and  tigers'  hearts ; — re- 
sounding, together,  with  the  tribune,  and  the  guillotine ; 
— not  merely  remarkable  for  tearing  the  priest  from 
the  altar,  but  for  rasing  the  altar  likewise  to  the  ground : 
and  distinguished  for  the  successive  destruction  of  some 
of  the  most  ancient  thrones  and  crowns  in  Europe  ; — 
for  the  ignominious  death  of  the  last  in  a  royal  line  of 
seventy  sovereigns,  who,  at  any  former  period  of  the 
monarchy,  would  have  been  blessed  as  the  father  of 
his  people,  and  canonized  as  the  true  descendant  of  St. 
Louis, — and  the  most  affecting  example  on  record  of 
an  anointed  queen,  not  more  famed  for  her  charms 
than  for  her  sorrows, — her  errors  more  than  atoned  by 
her  sufferings,  perishing  without  a  tear,  in  a  land  of 
ancient  renown  for  chivalry,  upon  the  scaffold  !  The 
revolution  in  France  was  a  scene  at  which  sensibility 
sinks.  It  seemed  to  extinguish  the  hopes  of  its  friends 
in  the  blood  of  its  martyrs ;  and  it  was  hardly  relieved 
by  the  virtues  of  its  purest  patriot,  educated  in  the 
schools  of  America,  banished  from  the  air  of  France, 
and  doomed  to  breathe  the  dungeons  of  despotism. 


100         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

To  what  are  we  indebted  again  for  our  escape  from 
that  wild  turmoil,  which  involved  the  elements  of  soci- 
ety and  government  in  Europe  with  an  overwhelming 
violence  1  Why  was  it,  that  while  the  storm,  that 
shook  the  continent  abroad,  beat  against  our  iron-bound 
shore,  its  fury  was  expended  at  our  feet ;  and  we  heard 
it  howl  along  our  agitated  coast  and  die  away  at  a  dis- 
tance 1  Why  did  we  enjoy  a  light,  like  the  children 
of  Israel,  in  our  dwellings,  while  Egyptian  darkness 
brooded  around  1  Why,  in  this  universal  chaos,  had 
we  such  reason  to  congratulate  ourselves  on  the  good 
providence  of  God,  in  ordaining  us  to  be  a  world  by 
ourselves  1 — It  was  certainly  not,  that  we  did  not  enter 
into  the  cause  of  liberty  in  France  with  enthusiasm ; 
for  our  hearts  were  in  it  as  warmly  as  they  were  in  our 
own.  Our  sympathy  was  with  it  as  long  as  it  could 
be  sustained  ;  our  regret  pursued  it  in  dishonor, — and 
our  affection  followed  it  into  misfortune.  We  lament- 
ed to  see,  that  all  the  results  of  that  amazing  movement 
of  the  human  mind,  contemplating  the  happiness  of 
millions,  and  looking  to  the  improvement  of  ages,  should 
follow  the  fortune  of  foreign  war  ;  and  that  they  should 
centre  in  a  single  individual,  carried  away  into  captivi- 
ty, and  doomed  to  end  his  days  upon  a  solitary  rock. 
We  grieved  to  behold  the  beautiful  and  brilliant  star  of 
the  French  Revolution  sink  at  last  into  mid-ocean,  the 
mere  meteor  of  military  glory. — Feeling  all  the  disap- 
pointment of  its  friends,  we  cannot  but  contrast  it  with, 
the  deep  repose,  which  our  own  illustrious  and  honored 
patriots  enjoy,  in  the  land  which  gave  them  birth,  be- 
neath the  mighty  shadows  of  our  happy  political  revo~ 
lution. 

Although,  as  Americans,  we  cease  to  cling  to  the 
cause  of  revolutionary  liberty  in  France  with  the  lin- 


THE    FRENCH    REVOLUTION.  101 

gering  fondness  of  early  affection,  we  continue  to  fol- 
low its  dying  light,  as  though  we  could  not  believe  it 
had  entirely  sunk  in  darkness  and  despair.  If  it  be  not 
possible  to  regard  it  uninfluenced  by  its  unfortunate 
termination,  if  we  can  borrow  nothing  from  its  origin  to 
relieve  its  mournful  catastrophe,  it  behoves  us  still  to 
embalm  the  wounds  of  liberty  with  its  healing  spirit, 
and  it  concerns  us  also,  that  all  its  sacrifices  and  servi- 
ces for  the  sake  of  man  should  not  have  perished  with 
its  victims.  The  vices  of  the  ancient  government  ren- 
dered it  unfit  for  the  happiness  of  France,  without  es- 
sential alterations  ;  and  while  we  reflect  with  pain  upon 
the  results  of  the  revolution,  we  must  bear  in  mind  that 
they  were  the  excesses  of  men  like  ourselves,  transport- 
ed by  hopes  excited  by  our  example,  and  exalted  by  a 
more  ardent  temper,  untrained  by  the  same  favorable 
habits  and  beneficial  institutions  ; — and  although  its 
transient  violence  may  shock  and  repel  our  sympathy, 
it  ought  not  to  disgust  us  with  its  principles,  or  to  alien- 
ate our  attachment  from  its  rational  objects.  Let  us 
not  fail  to  perceive,  as  we  shall,  if  we  are  attentive  to 
the  facts,  that  what  was  good  was  in  the  cause ;  and 
what  was  evil  was  the  effect  of  that  long  oppression  by 
which  it  was  corrupted.  In  this  wonderful  dispensation 
to  mankind  we  may  not  perhaps  pretend  to  scan  the 
ways  of  providence  ;  yet  in  common  with  the  Christian 
world  we  cannot  fail  to  behold  the  dealing  of  a  divine 
and  overruling  hand.  Where  the  seed  of  liberty  has 
been  sown,  and  watered  with  the  blood,  as  well  as 
tears,  of  patriots,  that  seed  is  yet  in  the  earth ;  and 
whether  it  spring  up  before  our  eyes  or  not,  it  may  be 
the  will  of  Him,  to  whom  no  eye  is  raised  in  vain,  that 
nothing  shall  be  lost ! 


MRS.  SYKES. 

By  Nathaniel  Deerinj. 

ONE  dark,  stormy  night  in  the  summer  of find- 
ing my  system  had  lost  much  of  its  humidum  radicale, 
or  radical  moisture,  in  truth  a  very  alarming  premoni- 
tory, I  directed  Mrs.  Tonic  in  preparing  my  warm 
aquafontana  to  infuse  a  quantum  sujficit  of  Hollands  ; 
of  which  having  taken  a  somewhat  copious  draught,  I 
sought  my  cubiculum.  Let  no  one  imagine  however, 
that  I  give  the  least  countenance  to  the  free  use  of  alco- 
holic mixtures.  They  are  undoubtedly  poisonous,  and 
like  other  poisons,  which  hold  a  high  rank  in  our  phar- 
macopeia, it  is  only  when  taken  under  the  direction  of 
those  deemed  cunning  in  our  art,  that  they  exert  a  heal- 
ing power,and  as  one  Shakspeare  happily  expresses  it, 
"  ascend  me  to  the  brain."  Now  as  the  radical  moist- 
ure is  essential  to  vitality  and  as  this  moisture  is  promo- 
ted in  a  wonderful  degree  by  potations  of  Hollands,  we 
of  the  Faculty  hold  with  Horatius  Flaccus  "  omnes  eo- 
dem  cogimur  " — we  may  all  cogue  it.  But  to  return  to 
my  narratio  or  story  as  it  may  be  called.  I  had  hardly 
"  stecp'd  my  senses  in  forgetfulness "  as  some  one 
quaintly  says,  when  I  was  effectually  aroused  by  a  loud 
knocking  at  the  window.  The  blows  were  so  heavy 
and  frequent  that  Mrs.  Tonic  though  somewhat  una- 
dorned, it  being  her  hour  for  retiring,  yet  fearful  of 
fractured  glass,  hurried  to  the  door.  I  might  here  men- 
tion, in  order  to  show  the  reason  of  Mrs.  Tonic's  fears, 
that  my  parlor  front-window  had  been  lately  beautified 


MRS.    SYKES.  103 

with  an  enlarged  sash  containing  not  seven  by  nine,  the 
size  generally  used,  but  eight  by  ten — panes  certainly 
of  a  rare  and  costly  size  and  which  Mrs.  Tonic  had  the 
honor  of  introducing.  The  cause  of  this  unseasonable 
disturbance  proved  to  be  a  messenger  from  Deacon 
Sykes  stating  that  good  Mrs.  Sykes  was  alarmingly  ill 
and  desiring  my  immediate  attendance.  Now  in  the 
whole  range  of  my  practice  there  was  no  one  whose 
call  was  sooner  heeded  than  Mrs.  Sykes's;  for  besides 
being  an  ailing  woman  and  of  course  a  profitable  pa- 
tient, she  had  much  influence  in  our  village  as  the 
wife  of  Deacon  Sykes.  But  I  must  confess  that  on 
this  occasion  I  did  feel  an  unwillingness  to  resume  my 
habiliments,  that  night  as  I  before  remarked,  being  un- 
commonly stormy  and  myself  feeling'  sensibly  the  ef- 
fects of  the  sudorific  I  had  just  taken.  Still  I  should 
willingly  have  exposed  myself  had  not  Mrs.  Tonic 
gathered  from  the  messenger  that  it  was  only  a  return 
of  Mrs.  Sykes's  old  complaint,  that  excruciating  pain, 
the  colic  ;  for  Mrs.  Sykes  was  flatulent.  As  the  medi- 
cine I  had  hitherto  prescribed  for  her  in  such  aliments 
had  been  wonderfully  blessed,  I  directed  Mrs.  Tonic  to 
bring  my  saddle-bags,  from  which  having  prepared  a 
somewhat  smart  dose  of  Tinct.  rhei.  with  carl,  soda,  I 
gave  it  to  the  messenger  bidding  him  return  with  all 
speed.  In  the  belief  that  this  would  prove  efficacious, 
I  again  turned  to  woo  the  not  reluctant  Somnus,  but 
scarcely  had  an  hour  elapsed  when  I  was  again  alarm- 
ed by  repeated  blows  first  at  the  door  and  then  at  the 
window.  In  a  moment  I  sat  bolt  upright,  in  which  at- 
titude I  was  soon  imitated  by  Mrs.  Tonic,  on  hearing 
the  crash  of  one  of  her  eight  by  tens.  Through  the 
aperture  I  now  distinctly  recognized  the  voice  of  Sam 


104         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

Saunders,  who  had  hired  with  the  Deacon,  stating  that 
good  Mrs.  Sykcs  was  absolutely  in  extremis,  or  as  Sam 
himself  expressed  it,  "  at  her  last  gasp."  On  hearing 
this,  you  may  be  assured  I  was  not  long  in  naturalisms; 
but  drawing  on  my  nether  integuments,  I  departed  de- 
spite the  remonstrances  of  Mrs.  Tonic,  without  my 
wrapper  and  without  any  thing  in  fact  except  a  renew- 
ed draught  of  my  philo  humidum  radicale.  Mv  jour- 
ney to  the  Deacon's  was  made  with  such  an  accelera- 
ted movement  that  it  was  accomplished  as  it  were  per 
sal/urn.  This  was  owing  to  my  great  anxiety  about 
Mrs.  Sykes,  though  possibly  in  a  small  degree  I  might 
have  dreaded  an  obstruction  of  the  pores  in  my  own 
person.  Howbeit,  on  arriving  at  the  Deacon's,  I  saw 
at  once  that  she  was  beyond  the  healing  art.  There 
lay  all  that  remained  of  Mrs.  Sykcs — the  disjecta  mem- 
bra, the  fragmenta — the  casket !  But  the  gem,  the 
metis  dicinior  was  gone  and  forever.  There  she  lay, 
regardless  of  the  elongated  visage  of  Deacon  Sykcs  on 
the  one  side,  and  of  the  no  less  elongated  visage  of  the 
widow  Dobble  on  the  other  side,  who  had  been  some 
time  visiting  there,  and  who  now  hung  over  her  depar- 
ted friend  in  an  agony  of  woe.  "  Doctor,"  cried  the 
Deacon,  "  is  there  no  hope  I "  "  Is  there  no  hope  1 " 
echoed  the  widow  Dobble.  I  grasped  the  wrist  of  Mrs. 
Sykes,  but  pulsation  had  ceased ;  the  eye  was  glazed 
and  the  countenance  livid.  "  A  caput  mortuiim,  Dea- 
con !  defuncta  !  the  wick  of  vitality  is  snuffed  out." 
The  bereaved  husband  groaned  deeply ;  the  widow 
Dobble  groaned  an  octave  higher. 

On  my  way  home  my  mind  was  much  exercised 
with  this  sudden  and  mysterious  dispensation.  Had 
Sam  Saunders  blundered  in  his  statement  of  her  con> 


MRS.    SYKES.  105 

plaint  7  Had  I  myself — good  Heavens  !  it  could'nt  be 
possible  !  I  opened  my  bags — horresco  referens  !  it 
was  but  too  palpable  !  Owing  either  to  the  agitation 
of  the  moment  when  so  suddenly  awakened,  or  to  the 
deep  solicitude  of  Mrs.  Tonic,  who,  in  preparing  my 
pliilo  humidum  radicale,  had  infused  an  undue  portion 
of  the  Hollands — to  one  of  these  the  lamented  Mrs. 
Sykes  might  charge  her  untimely  exit ;  for  there  was 
the  vial  of  tinct,  rhei.  full  to  the  stopple,  while  the  vial 
marked  "  laudanum,"  was  as  dry  as  a  throat  in  fever. 
I  hesitate  not  to  record  that  at  this  discovery,  I  lost 
some  of  that  self-possession  which  has  ever  been  char- 
acteristic of  the  Tonics.  I  was  not  only  standing  on 
the  brow  of  a  precipice,  but  my  centre  of  gravity 
seemed  a  little  beyond  it.  There  were  rivals  in  the 
vicinity  jealous  of  my  rising  reputation.  The  sudden 
death  might  cause  a  post  mortem  examination,  and  the 
result  would  be  as  fatal  to  me  as  was  the  laudanum  to 
Mrs.  Sykes.  A  thought,  occurring,  doubtless  through 
a  special  Providence,  suddenly  relieved  my  mind.  At 
break  of  day  I  retraced  my  footsteps  to  the  chamber 
of  the  deceased.  Accompanied  by  the  Deacon  I  ap- 
proached to  gaze  upon  the  corpse  ;  when,  suddenly 
starting  back,  I  placed  one  hand  upon  my  olfactories 
and  grasping  with  the  other  the  alarmed  mourner,  I 
hurried  towards  the  door.  "  In  the  name  of  heaven!" 
cried  the  Deacon,  "  what  is  the  matter  1 "  "  The  mat- 
ter !  "  I  replied,  "  the  matter  !  Deacon,  listen.  In  all 
cases  of  mortality  where  the  radical  moisture  has  not 
been  lessened  by  long  disease,  putrefaction  commen- 
ces on  the  cessation  of  the  organic  functions  and  a  mi' 
asma  fatal  to  the  living  is  in  a  moment  generated. 
This  is  the  case  even  in  cold  weather,  and  it  being  now 
10 


106  THE    PORTLAND    SKETCH    BOOK. 

Julv,  I  cannot  answer  for  your  own  life  if  the  burial  be 
deferred  ;  the  last  sad  offices  must  be  at  once  attended 
to."  Deacon  Sykes  consented.  Not,  he  remarked,  on 
his  own  account,  for,  as  to  himself,  life  had  lost  its 
charms,  but  there  were  others  near  on  whom  many 
were  dependent,  and  he  could  not  think  of  gratifying 
his  own  feelings  at  their  expense — sufficient,  says  he, 
for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.  I  hardly  need  add, 
that,  when  my  advice  to  the  Deacon  got  wind,  the 
neighbors  with  one  accord  rallied  to  assist  in  prepar- 
ing Mrs.  Sykes  for  her  last  home  ;  and  their  labors 
were  not  a  little  quickened  by  the  fumes  of  tar  and 
vinegar  which  I  directed  to  be  burnt  on  this  melancho- 
ly occasion.  Much  as  I  cherished  Mrs.  Sykes,  still  I 
confess  that  my  feelings  were  much  akin  to  those 
called  pleasurable,  when  I  heard  the  rattle  of  those  ter- 
rene particles  which  covered  at  the  same  time  my  la- 
mented friend  and  my  professional  lapsus. 

But  after  all,  as  I  sat  meditating  on  the  ups  and 
downs  of  life  during  the  evening  of  the  funeral,  the 
question  arose  in  my  mind,  is  all  safe  1  May  not 
some  unfledged  Galons  remove  the  body  for  the  pur- 
pose of  dissection  ] — Worse  than  all,  may  not  some 
malignant  rival  have  already  meditated  a  similar  ex- 
pedition 1  The  more  I  reflected  on  this  matter  and  its 
probable  consequences,  the  more  my  fears  increased, 
till  at  last  they  became  too  great  for  my  frail  tenement. 
There  was  at  this  period  a  boarder  in  my  family,  one 
Job  Sparrow,  who  having  spent  about  thirty  years  of  his 
pilgrimage  in  the  "  singing  of  anthems,"  concluded  at 
length  to  devote  the  residue  thereof  to  the  study  of  the 
human  frame,  to  which  he  was  the  more  inclined,  pro- 
bably, as  he  could  have  the  benefit  of  my  deep  inves- 


MRS.    SYKES.  107 

tigations.  His  outward  man,  though  somewhat  ungain- 
ly, was  exceedingly  muscular,  and  he  had  a  firmness 
of  nerve  which  would  make  him  willingly  eno-ao'e  in 

o   J  Go 

any  enterprise  that  would  aid  him  in  his  calling.  Con- 
ducting him  to  my  sanctum  or  study,  a  retired  cham- 
ber in  my  domicil,  "  Job,"  I  remarked,  "  I  have  long 
noticed  your  engagcdness  in  the  healing  art,  and  I  have 
lamented  my  inability  of  late  to  further  your  progress 
in  the  study  of  anatomy  from  the  difficulty  of  procur- 
ing subjects.  An  opportunity,  however,  is  at  length 
afforded,  and  I  shall  not  fail  to  embrace  it  though  at 
the  sacrifice  of  my  best  feelings.  The  subject  I  mean, 
is  the  lamented  Mrs.  Sykes.  Bring  her  remains  at 
night  to  this  chamber,  and  I  with  my  venerable  friend 
Dr.  Grizzle  will  exhibit  what,  though  often  described, 
are  seldom  visible,  those  wonderful  absorbents,  the  lac- 
teals. — It  is  only  in  very  recent  subjects,  my  dear 
Job,  that  it  is  possible  to  point  them  out.  .My  pupil 
grinned  complacently  at  this  manifestation  of  kindly 
feelings  towards  him  in  one  so  much  his  superior,  and 
hastened  to  prepare  himself  for  the  expedition.  It  was 
about  nine  of  the  clock  when  the  venerable  Dr.  Griz- 
zle, whom  I  had  notified  of  my  intended  operations 
through  Job,  came  stealthily  in.  Dr.  Grizzle,  though 
from  his  appearance  one  would  conclude  that  he  was 
about  to  "  shuffle  off  this  mortal  coil,"  was  a  rara  avis 
as  to  his  knowledge  of  the  corporeal  functions.  There 
were  certain  gainsayers,  indeed,  who  asserted  that  his 
intellectual  candle  was  just  glimmering  in  its  socket ; 
but  it  will  show  to  a  demonstration  how  little  such  state- 
ments are  to  be  regarded  when  I  assert  that  the  like 
slanders  had  been  thrown  out  touching  my  own  person. 
The  profound  Grizzle,  above  such  malignant  feelings, 


108         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

always  coincided  with  my  own  opinion,  both  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  disease  we  were  called  to  counteract, 
and  as  to  the  mode  of  treatment ;  and  so  highly  did  I 
value  him,  that  he  was  the  only  one  whom  I  called  to 
a  consultation  when  that  course  was  deemed  expedient. 
We  had  prepared  our  instruments  and  were  refreshing 
our  minds  with  the  pages  of  Chesselden,  a  luminous 
writer,  when  to  my  great  satisfaction  the  signal  of  my 
pupil  was  heard  below.  Hitherto  our  labors  seemed 
to  have  been  blest ;  but  a  difficulty  occurred  in  this 
stage  of  our  progress  which  threatened  not  only  to  ren- 
der these  labors  useless,  but  to  retard,  if  I  may  so  say, 
the  advance  of  anatomical  science.  It  was  this  ;  the 
stairway  was  uncommonly  narrow,  and  the  lamented 
Mrs.  Sykes  was  uncommonly  large.  As  it  was  impos- 
sible, then,  for  Job  to  pass  up  at  the  same  time  with 
the  defunct,  it  was  settled  after  mature  deliberation, 
that  he  and  myself,  should  occupy  a  post  at  each  ex- 
treme, while  Grizzle  assisted  near  the  lumbar  region. 
"  Now,"  cried  Job,  "  heave  together  ;  "  but  the  words 
were  hardly  uttered,  when  a  shreak  from  Grizzle,  par- 
alized  our  exertions.  Our  muscular  efforts  had  wedg- 
ed my  venerable  friend  so  completely  between  Mrs. 
Sykes  and  the  wall,  that  his  lungs  wheezed  like  a  pair 
of  decayed  bellows ;  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  Her- 
culean strength  of  Job,  who  rushed  as  it  were  in  medi- 
as  res,  the  number  of  the  dead  would  have  equalled 
that  of  the  living.  At  length,  after  repeated  trials,  we 
effected,  as  I  facetiously  remarked,  our  "  passage  of 
the  Alps  ; "  an  historical  allusion  which  tended  much 
to  the  divertisement  of  Grizzle  and  obliterated  in  no 
small  measure,  the  memory  of  his  recent  peril.  And 
now,  having  directed  Job  to  go  down  and  secure  the 


MRS.    SYKES.  109 

door,  Grizzle  and  myself  advanced  to  remove  the  ban- 
dages that  confined  her  arms,  previous  to  dissection. 
But  scarcely  was  the  work  accomplished  when  a  sepul- 
chral groan  burst  from  the  defunct,  the  eyes  glared, 
and  the  loosened  arm  was  slowly  lifted  from  the  body. 
That  I  am  not  of  that  class  who  can  be  charged  with 
any  thing  like  timidity,  is,  I  think  well  proved  by  my 
consenting  to  act  for  several  years  as  regimental  sur- 
geon in  our  militia,  a  post  undoubtedly  of  danger.  But 
I  must  concede  that  at  this  unexpected  movement,  both 
Grizzle  and  myself  were  somewhat  agitated.  From 
the  table  to  the  stair-way,  we  leaped,  as  it  were  by  in- 
stinct, and  with  a  velocity  at  which  even  now  I  greatly 
marvel.  This  sudden  evidence  of  vitality  in  my  la- 
mented friend,  or  I  might  say  rather  an  unwillingness 
to  be  found  alone  with  her  in  such  a  peculiar  situation, 
also  induced  me  to  prevent  if  possible  the  retreat  of 
Grizzle,  and  I  fastened  with  some  degree  of  violence 
upon  his  projecting  queue.  It  was  fortunate,  in  so  far 
as  regarded  Grizzle,  that  art  in  this  instance  had  sup- 
planted nature.  His  wig,  of  which  the  queue  formed 
no  inconsiderable  portion,  was  all  that  my  hand  retain- 
ed. Had  it  been  otherwise,  such  was  the  tenacity  of 
my  grasp  on  the  one  hand,  and  such  his  momentum  on 
the  other,  that  Grizzle  must  have  left  the  natural  orna- 
ment of  his  cerebrum,  while  I,  though  unjustly,  must 
have  been  charged  with  imitating  our  heathenish  Abo- 
rigines. As  it  was,  his  bald  pate  shot  out  from  beneath 
it  with  the  velocity  of  a  discharged  ball ;  nor  was  the 
similitude  to  that  engine  of  carnage  at  all  lessened 
when  I  heard  its  rebounds  upon  the  stairs.  How  long 
I  remained  overwhelmed  by  the  wonderful  scenes 
which  I  had  just  witnessed,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  on  re- 
10* 


110         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

covering,  I  found  that  Mrs.  Sykes  had  been  removed 
to  my  best  chamber,  and  Job  and  Mrs.  Tonic  both  bu- 
sily engaged  about  her  person.  They  had,  as  I  after- 
wards ascertained,  by  bathing  her  feet  and  rubbing  her 
with  hot  flannels,  wrought  a  change  almost  miraculous ; 
and  the  effects  of  the  laudanum  having  happily  subsi- 
ded she  appeared,  when  I  entered,  as  in  her  pristine 
state.  At  that  moment  they  were  about  administering 
a  composing  draught,  which  undoubtedly  she  needed, 
having  received  several  severe  contusions  on  the  stair- 
way in  our  endeavors  to  extricate  Grizzle.  But  rushing 
forward,  I  exclaimed,  "thanks  to  Heaven  that  I  again 
sec  that  cherished  face !  thanks  that  I  have  been  the  in- 
strument under  Providence  of  restoring  to  society  its 
brightest  ornament !  Be  composed,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Sykcs,  ask  no  questions  to  night,  unless  you  would 
frustrate  all  my  labors."  Then  presenting  to  her  lips 
an  opiate,  in  a  short  time  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  see- 
ing her  sink  into  a  tranquil  slumber. 

As  T  considered  it  all  important  that  the  matter 
should  be  kept  a  profound  secret  till  I  had  arranged 
my  plans ;  and  as  Mrs.  Tonic  had  in  a  remarkable  de- 
gree that  propensity  which  distinguishes  woman — I  was 
under  the  necessity  of  making  her  privy  to  the  whole- 
transaction  ;  trusting  that  the  probable  ruin  to  my  repu- 
tation consequent  on  an  exposure  would  effectually 
bridle  her  unruly  member.  My  venerable  friend  too, 
I  invited  for  a  few  days  to  my  own  mansion  lest  the 
bruises  he  received  during  his  exodus  from  the  dissect- 
ing  room  might  have  deprived  him  of  his  customary 
caution.  The  last  and  most  difficult  step  \yas  to  pre- 
pare the  mind  of  Mrs.  Sykes,  who  was  yet  in  nulribm 
as  to  her  new  location.  With  great  caution  I  gradual- 


MRS.    SYKES.  Ill 

ly  unfolded  the  strange  event  that  had  just  transpired, ' — 
her  sudden  apparent  death,  the  alarm  of  the  village 
touching  the  miasma,  and  the  consequent  sudden  inter- 
ment. '  Your  exit,  my  dear  Mrs.  Sykcs,'  I  continued, 
1  seemed  like  a  dream — I  could  not  realize  it.  Such 
an  irreparable  loss !  I  thought  of  all  the  remedies  that 
had  been  applied  in  such  cases.  Had  any  thing  been 
omitted  that  had  a  tendency  to  increase  the  circulation 
of  the  radical  fluid '1  There  was  the  Galvanic  battery, 
— it  had  been  entirely  overlooked,  and  yet  what  won- 
ders it  had  performed  !  No  sooner  had  this  occui'red 
to  my  mind  than  I  was  impressed  with  the  conviction 
that  you  were  to  revisit  this  mundane  sphere,  and  that 
I  was  the  chosen  instrument  to  enkindle  the  vital  spark. 
No  time  was  lost  in  obeying  this  mysterious  impulse. 
The  grave  was  opened,  the  battery  was  applied  secun- 
dem  artem — and  the  result  is  the  restoration  to  society 
of  our  beloved  Mrs.  Sykes.'  In  proportion  to  her  hor- 
ror at  the  idea,  that  she  must  have  rested  from  her  la- 
bors but  for  my  skill,  was  her  gratitude  for  this  timely 
rescue.  She  fell  on  my  neck  and  clung  like  one  de- 
mented, till  a  gathering  frown  on  the  face  of  my  spouse 
warned  me  of  the  necessity  of  repelling  her  embraces. 
Mrs.  Sykes  was  now  desirous  of  returning  immediately 
home,  to  restore  as  it  were  to  life  her  bereaved  con- 
sort, who  was  no  doubt  mourning  at  his  desolation,  and 
refusing  to  be  comforted.  But  here  I  felt  it  my  duty 
to  interpose.  '  My  dear  Mrs.  Sykes,'  said  I,  '  your  re- 
turn at  this  moment  would  overwhelm  him.  The  sud- 
den change  from  the  lowest  depths  of  woe  to  a  state  of 
ecstacy,  would  consign  him  to  the  tenement  you  have 
just  quitted.  No !  this  extraordinary  Providence  must  be 
gradually  unfolded.'  She  yielded  at  last  to  my  sage 


112         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

councils  and  consented  to  wait  till  the  violence  of  his 
grief  had  somewhat  abated,  and  his  mind  had  become 
sufficiently  tranquil  to  hear  that  tale  which  I  was  cau- 
tiously to  relate.  On  the  following  day  however,  her 
anxiety  to  return  had  risen  to  a  high  pitch,  and  truly 
by  evening  it  was  beyond  my  control.  She  was  firm 
in  the  belief  that  I  could  make  the  disclosure  without 
essential  injury  to  the  Deacon ;  '  besides,1  as  she  re- 
marked, '  there  was  no  knowing  how  much  waste  there 
had  been  in  the  kitchen.'  It  was  settled  at  last  that  I 
should  immediately  walk  over  to  the  Deacon's,  and  by 
a  judicious  train  of  reflection,  for  which  I  was  admira- 
bly fitted,  prepare  the  way  for  this  joyous  meeting. 
When  I  arrived  at  the  house  of  mourning,  though  per- 
haps the  last  person  in  the  world  entitled  to  the  name 
of  evesdropper,  yet  as  my  eye  was  somewhat  askance 
as  I  passed  the  window,  I  observed  a  spectacle  that  for 
a  time  arrested  my  footsteps.  There  sat  the  Deacon, 
recounting  probably  the  virtues  of  the  deceased  part- 
ner, and  there,  not  far  apart,  sat  the  widow  Dobble 
sympathizing  in  his  sorrows.  It  struck  me  that  Dea- 
con Sykes  was  not  ungrateful  for  her  consolatory  ef- 
forts ;  for  he  took  her  hand  with  a  gentle  pressure 
and  held  it  to  his  bosom.  Perhaps  it  was  the  unusual 
mode  of  dress  now  exhibited  by  the  widow  Dobble, 
that  led  him  to  this  act ;  for  she  was  decked  out  in  Mrs. 
Sykes's  best  frilled  cap,  and  such  is  the  waywardness 
of  fancy,  he  might  for  the  moment  have  imagined  that 
his  help-mate  was  "beside  him.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
while  I  was  thus  complacently  regarding  this  inter- 
change of  friendly  feelings,  the  cry  of  ' you  vile  hussy'1 
suddenly  rang  in  my  very  ear,  and  the  next  instant, 
the  door  having  been  burst  open,  who  should  stand  be- 


MRS.    SYKES.  113 

fore  'the  astonished  couple  but  the  veritable  Mrs.  Sykes. 
The  Deacon  leaped  as  if  touched  in  the  pericardium, 
and  essayed  to  gain  the  door ;  but  in  his  transit  his 
knees  denied  their  office,  and  he  sank  gibbering  as  his 
hand  was  upon  the  latch.  As  to  the  terrified  widow 
Dobble,  I  might  say  with  Virgilius,  steteruntque  comae, 
her  combs  stood,  up  ;  for  the  frilled  cap  was  displaced 
with  no  little  violence,  and  with  an  agonizing  shriek 
she  fell,  apparently  in  articulo  mortis,  on  the  body  of 
the  Deacon.  What  a  lamentable  scene  !  and  all  in 
consequence  of  the  rashness  and  imprudence  of  Mrs. 
Sykes.  No  sooner  had  I  left  my  own  domicil  than 
Mrs.  Sykes,  regardless  of  my  admonitions,  resolved  on 
following  my  steps,  and  was  actually  peeping  over  my 
shoulder  at  the  moment  the  Deacon's  hand  came  in 
contact  with  the  widow  Dobble's.  It  was  truly  fortu- 
nate for  all  concerned  that  a  distinguished  member  of 
the  faculty  was  near  at  this  dreadful  crisis.  In  ordi- 
nary hands  nothing  could  have  prevented  a  quietus. 
Their  spirits  were  taking  wing,  and  it  was  only  by  ex- 
traordinary skill  that  I  effected  what  lawyer  Snoodles 
said  was  a  complete  'stoppage  in  transitu."1  I  regret 
to  state  that  this  was  my  last  visit  to  Deacon  Sykes's. 
Unmindful  of  my  services  in  resuscitating  Mrs.  Sykes, 
he  remarked  that  my  neglect  to  prepare  him  for  the 
exceeding  joy  that  was  in  store,  had  so  far  shattered 
his  nervous  system  that  his  usefulness  was  over ;  and 
in  fine,  had  built  up  between  us  a  wall  of  separation 
not  to  be  broken  down.  I  always  opined,  however, 
and  of  this  opinion  was  Mrs.  Tonic,  that  the  Deacon's 
coldness  arose  in  part  from  an  incipient  warmth  for 
Mrs.  Dobble,  which  was  thus  checked  in  its  first  stages. 
It  was  even  hinted  that  on  her  departure,  which  took 


Hi        THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

place  immediately,  he  manifested  less  of  resignation 
than  at  the  burial  of  Mrs.  Sykcs.  The  coldness  of  the 
widow  Dobble  towards  me,  certainly  unmerited,  was 
also  no  less  apparent,  till  I  brought  about  what  I  had 
much  at  heart,  viz  :  a  match  between  her  and  Major 
Popkin.  He  was  a  discreet,  forehanded  man,  a  Re- 
presentative to  our  General  Court,  and  kept  the  Variety 
Store  in  that  part  of  our  town  that  was  named  in  honor 
of  him,  '  Popkins's  Corner.'* 

•  I'r.nii  the  papers  of  Di.  Tonic,  recently   brought  to  light. 


OLD  AND  YOUNG. 

By  James  Furbish. 


I  AM  alarmed  at  the  changes  which  are  taking  place  in 
society.  While  many  are  lauding  the  spirit  of  the  age 
and  holding  up  to  my  gaze  the  picture  of  fourth-com- 
ing improvements — opening  broad  and  charming  vistas 
into  the  almost  present  future  of  mental  and  moral 
perfection,  I  cannot  help  casting  a  lingering  look  upon 
the  past.  Time  was  when  old  age  and  infancy,  man- 
hood and  youth,  walked  the  path  of  life  together; 
when  the  strength  of  young  limbs  aided  the  feebleness 
of  the  old,  and  the  joyousness  of  youth  enlivened  the 
gravity  of  age.  But  the  son  has  now  left  the  father 
to  totter  on  alone,  and  the  daughter  has  outstripped  the 
mother  in  the  race.  Beauty  and  strength  have  separa- 
ted from  decrepitude  and  weakness.  The  vine  has 
uncoiled  from  its  natural  support,  and  the  ivy  has 
ceased  to  entwine  the  oak. 

There  is  an  increasing  disposition  on  the  part  of  the 
young  and  the  old  to  classify  their  pleasures  according 
to  their  age.  Those  pastimes  which  used  to  be  enjoy- 
ed by  both  together,  are  now  separated.  This  is  an 
evil  of  too  serious  a  character  to  pass  unfelt,  unlament- 
ed  or  unrebuked.  It  is  easy  to  refer  back  to  days 
when  parents  were  more  happy  with  their  children, 
and  children  more  honorable  and  useful  to  parents 


116          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

than  at  present.  It  is  not  long  since  the  old  and  the 
young  were  to  be  seen  together  in  the  blithesome  dance 
and  the  merry  play.  And  why  this  change  I  Why 
do  we  find  that,  within  a  few  years,  the  old  have  aban- 
doned amusements  to  the  young  1  Is  it  that  they  think 
their  children  can  profit  more  by  their  amusements 
than  if  they  were  present  I  If  this  be  the  impression 
it  is  to  be  regretted.  No  course  could  they  possibly 
adopt  so  injurious  to  the  character  of  their  children. 
For  youth  need  the  direction  and  the  advice  of  age, 
and  age  requires  the  exhilaration  and  cheerfulness  of 
youth.  How  many  lonely  evenings  would  be  enliven- 
ed— how  many  dark  visions  of  the  future  would  be 
dissipated,  and  how  many  hours  of  gloom  and  despon- 
dency would  be  put  to  flight,  if  fathers  would  keep 
pace  with  their  sons,  and  mothers  with  their  daughters, 
in  the  innocent  pleasures  of  life.  Here,  as  it  appears 
to  me,  is  the  grand  secret  of  happiness  for  the  young 
and  the  old.  For  the  old,  who  are  too  apt  to  dwell  on 
the  glories  of  the  past  and  to  see  nothing  that  is  lovely 
in  the  present ;  and  for  the  young,  who  throw  too 
strong  and  gaudy  a  light  upon  the  present  and  the  fu- 
ture. Nature  did  not  so  intend  it.  So  long  as  there  is 
life,  she  intended  we  should  innocently  enjoy  it.  And 
the  barrier  which  has,  by  some  unaccountable  mishap, 
been  thrown  between  the  young  and  the  old  is,  there- 
fore, greatly  to  be  lamented.  But  how  shall  it  be 
removed ')  How  shall  we  get  back  again  to  the  good 
old  times  of  the  merry  husking,  the  joyous  dance,  the 
happy  commingling  in  the  same  company,  of  the  priest 
and  his  deacon,  the  father  and  his  child,  the  husband 
and  his  wife  1 

It  would  not  be  difficult  to  trace  directly  to  the  dis- 


I 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  117 

continuance  of  the  practice  of  joining  with  the  young 
in  their  amusements,  the  great  increase  of  youthful 
dissipation  of  every  description.  By  being  removed 
from  the  advice,  restraint  and  example  of  the  old  and 
experienced,  they  have,  by  degrees,  fallen  into  usages 
which  were  almost  unknown  in  years  gone  by.  When 
accompanied  by  parents,  the  hours  of  pleasure  were 
seasonable.  Daughters  were  under  the  inspection  of 
mothers,  and  sons  were  guided  by  the  wisdom  of  fa- 
thers. Homes  were  happier,  the  community  more  vir- 
tuous, and  the  world  at  large  a  gainer  by  such  judicious 
customs.  We  now  hear  the  complaint  that  sons  have 
gone  astray,  that  daughters  have  behaved  indiscreetly, 
and  that  families  have  been  disgraced.  But  can  there 
be  a  doubt,  if  the  practice  were  general  of  accompany- 
ing our  children  in  those  pastimes  in  which  they  ought 
to  be  reasonably  indulged,  that  many  of  these  evils 
would  be  prevented  1  Here  then  must  begin  the  reform. 
Complain  not  that  your  son  is  out  late,  if  you  might 
have  been  with  him  to  bring  him  to  your  fire-side  at  a 
seasonable  hour.  Complain  not  that  your  daughter 
has  formed  an  unsuitable  or  untimely  connexion,  if  a 
mother's  care  might  have  avoided  the  evil.  Youth 
will  go  astray  without  the  protection  of  age.  And  it  is 
a  crying  sin  that  these  old-fashioned  moral  restraints 
have  been  removed.  What,  I  ask,  can  be  your  object 
in  thus  leaving  your  children  to  their  own  direction  1 
Do  they  love  you  the  better  for  it  1  Are  their  manners 
more  agreeable — their  conduct  more  respectful  while 
at  home  1  Is  not  rather  the  reverse  of  this  the  case  '1 
Do  they  not  give  you  more  trouble  at  home  1  Are 
they  not  every  day  incurring  new  and  useless  expenses 
in  consequence  of  allowing  them  to  legislate  and  plan 
11 


118         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

for  themselves  1  Rashness  is  the  characteristic  of 
youth.  But  allowing  them  to  be  capable  of  governing 
themselves,  you  are  a  great  loser  by  drawing  this 
strong  division  line  between  their  pleasures  and  your 
own.  Your  own  years  are  less  in  number  and  in  hap- 
piness. Your  children  are  dead  to  you,  though  alive 
to  themselves.  Your  sympathies  are  not  linked  with 
theirs  step  by  step  in  life  ;  and  thus,  although  surround- 
ed by  children,  you  go  childless,  unhappy  and  gloomy 
to  the  grave.  Reform  then,  I  say,  reform  at  once. 
Annihilate  this  classification  of  junior  and  senior  plea- 
sures. Join  with  your  children  in  the  dance,  the  song 
and  the  play.  Enjoy  with  them  every  harmless  plea- 
sure and  sport  of  life.  Encompass  yourself  as  often  as 
possible  with  the  gay  faces  of  the  young.  Teach  them 
by  example,  to  be  happy  like  rational  beings,  and  to 
enjoy  life  without  abusing  it.  Let  the  ripe  fruit  be  seen 
with  the  green — the  blossom  with  the  bud — the  green 
with  the  fading  leaf  and  the  vine  with  its  natural  sup- 
port : 


AUTUMNAL   DAYS. 

By    P.   H.    Greenleaf. 


They  rustle  lo  the  eddying-  wind,  and  to  the  rabbit's  tread  : 


The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs  the  jav. 


STERN  and  forbidding  as  arc  the  general  features  of 
our  northern  climate — cold  and  chilling  as  the  gay 
Southron  may  deem,  even  the  very  air  we  breathe,' — 
we  have  still  some  characteristics  of  climate  peculiar  to 
ourselves,  and  none  the  less  pleasing  to  us  from  this 
fact.  Our  hearts  must  indeed  be  as  hard  and  as  cold 
as  the  very  granite  of  our  craggy  shores,  did  they  not 
glow  with  delight  in  the  possession  of  that,  (  be  it  what 
it  may )  which  is  peculiar  to  and  markedly  character- 
istic of  our  native  home.  And  of  all  these  peculiari- 
ties not  one  is  so  delightful — not  one  finds  us  so  rich 
in  New  England  feeling,  as  that  beautiful  season  call- 
ed the  Indian  Summer.  It  occurs  in  October,  and  is 
characterized  by  a  soft,  hazy  atmosphere — by  those 
quiet,  and  balmy  days,  which  seem  so  like  the  last 
whisperings  of  a  Spring  morning.  The  appearance  of 
the  landscape  is  like  any  thing,  but  the  fresh  and  lively 
sceneiy  of  Spring  ;  and  yet  the  delicious  softness  of 
the  atmosphere  is  so  like  it,  that  it  brings  back  fresh  to 
the  mind  all  the  beautiful  associations  connected  with 
a  vernal  day.  Our  forests  too,  at  this  season  are,  for 
a  brief  space,  clothed  in  the  most  gorgeous  and  mag- 
nificent array  ;  their  brilliant  and  changing  hues,  and 


120         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

the  magnificence  of  their  whole  appearance,  almost 
give  their  rich  and  mellow  tint  to  the  atmosphere  itself: 

o  l 

and  render  this  period  unrivalled  in  beauty,  and  une- 
qualled in  the  more  equable  climes  of  our  western 
neighbors.  The  calm  sobriety  of  the  scenery — the 
splendid  variety  of  the  forest  coloring,  from  deep  scarlet 
to  russet  gray,  and  the  quiet  and  dreamy  expression  of 
the  autumnal  atmosphere  make  a  deeper  impression  on 
the  mind  than  all  the  verdant  promises  of  spring,  or 
the  luxuriant  possession  of  summer.  The  aspen  birch 
in  its  pallid  white — the  walnut  in  its  deep  yellow — the 
brilliant  maple  in  its  scarlet  drapery — and  the  magical 
colors  of  the  whole  vegetable  world,  from  the  aster  by 
the  brook  to  the  vine  on  the  trellis,  combine  to  render 
the  autumnal  scenery  of  New-England  the  most  splen- 
did and  magnificent  in  the  world. 

But  we  cannot  forget,  if  we  would,  that  this  beauti- 
ful magnificence  of  the  forests  is  but  the  livery  of 
death ;  and  the  changing  hues  of  the  leaves,  beautiful 
though  they  are,  still  are  but  indications  of  the  sure, 
but  gradual  progress  of  decay. 

'  Lightly  falli  the  fool  of  death 
Whene'er  lie  treads  on  flowers:' 

and  though  he  has  breathed  beauty  on  the  clustered 
trees  of  the  forest — it  is  to  them  the  breath  of  the  Si- 
rocco. 

We  have  in  the  wasting  consumption  a  parallel  to 
this  splendid  decay  of  the  leaves  and  flowers  of  Summer. 
Day  by  day  we  see  its  victim  with  the  seal  of  death 
upon  him — failing  and  decaying  in  strength — increas- 
ing in  beauty.  While  the  brilliant  and  intellectual 
glances  of  the  eye  speak,  in  language  too  plain  for  the 


AUTUMNAL    DAYS.  121 

sceptic's  denial,  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  The 
changing  and  brilliant  hues  of  the  forest  trees  give  to 
us  the  most  lively  type  of  the  frailty  of  beauty  and  the 
brevity  of  human  existence,  while  their  death  and  buri- 
al during  the  winter  and  their  resurrection  in  the  spring- 
time, are  almost  an  assured  pledge  of  our  own  immor- 
tality and  resurrection  to  an  eternity. 

Truly  '  the  melancholy  days  are  come' — Death  an- 
nually lifts  up  his  solemn  hymn,  and  the  rustling  of  the 
dying  leaves  and  the  certainty  of  their  speedy  death 
afford  to  us  all  '  eloquent  teachings.'  The  gay  and 
exhilarating  spring  has  long  since  passed  away — the 
genial  and  joyous  warmth  of  summer  is  no  more  ;  and 
the  grateful  abundance  and  varied  scenes  of  Autumn 
are  about  yielding  to  the  inclemency  of  hoary  winter. 
The  gay  variety  of  nature  has  at  length  departed — the 
countless  throng  of  the  gaudy  flowerets  of  summer  are 
all  returned  to  their  native  dust — the  light  of  the  sun 
himself  is  often  veiled ;  and  the  bright  livery  of  earth 
is  hidden  from  our  sight  by  the  gray  mantle  of  the 
iron-bound  surface,  or  the  unbroken  whiteness  of  a 
snowy  covering.  Reading  thus  the  language  of  decay 
written  by  the  finger  of  God  upon  all  the  works  of  na- 
ture— reminded  too  of  the  rapid  flight  of  time  by  the 
ceaseless  revolution  of  seasons,  we  naturally  turn  our 
thoughts  from  the  contemplation  of  external  objects  to 
that  of  the  soul,  and  of  unseen  worlds.  The  appearan- 
ces of  other  seasons  lead  our  thoughts  to  the  world  we 
inhabit,  and  by  the  variety  of  objects  presented  to  our 
view  rather  confine  them  to  sensible  things,  and  mat- 
ters immediately  connected  with  them.  But  the  buried 
flowers  and  the  eddying  leaves  of  this  season  teach  us 
nobler  lessons  ;  and  the  mind  expands,  while  it  loses 
11* 


122         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

itself  in  the  infinity  of  being  ;  and  the  gloom  of  the 
natural  world  shows  us  the  splendors  of  other  worlds, 
and  other  states  of  being  ; 

1  As  darkness  shows  us  worlds  of  light 
We  never  saw  by  tlaj." 

They  tell  us,  that  in  the  magnificent  system  of  the 
government  of  God  there  exists  no  evil  ;  and  the  migh- 
ty resurrections  annually  accomplished  in  the  multitude 
of  by  gone  years  assure  us,  that  the  gloom  of  the  night 
is  but  the  prelude  to  the  brightness  of  the  day — that 
the  funeral  pall  of  autumnal  and  wintry  days  is  the 
harbinger  of  a  glorious,  joyous  and  life-giving  spring  ; 
and  to  that  man  the  gates  of  the  dark  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death  are  designed  as  the  crystal  portals  of 
an  eternity  of  bliss. 

'  Of  the  innumerable  eyes,  that  open  upon  nature, 
none  but  those  of  man,  sec  its  author  and  its  end.' 
This  solemn  privilege  is  the  birth-right  of  the  beings  of 
immortality — of  those,  who  perish  not  in  time,  but  were 
formed,  in  some  greater  hour,  to  be  companions  in 
eternity.  The  mighty  Being,  who  watches  the  revolu- 
tions of  the  material  world,  opens  in  this  manner  to  our 
eyes  the  laws  of  his  government ;  and  tells  us,  that  it 
is  not  the  momentary  state,  but  the  final  issue,  which 
is  to  disclose  its  eternal  design.  Indeed  the  whole  vol- 
ume of  nature  is  a  natural  revelation  to  man,  often 
overlooked — often  misused — seldom  understood — but 
plain  and  solemn  in  its  language,  and  full  of  the  wisdom, 
justice  and  mercy  of  its  author. 

While,  then,  all  inferior  nature  shrinks  instinctively 
from  the  winds  of  Autumn  and  the  storms  of  winter,  to 
the  high  intellect  of  man  they  teach  ennobling  lessons. 
To  him  the  inclemency  of  winter  is  no  less  eloquent. 


THE    PLAGUE.  123 

than  the  abundance  of  Autumn,  or  the  joyous  promise 
of  Spring.  He  knows,  that  the  fair  and  beautiful  of 
nature  now  buried  in  an  icy  covering,  have  still  a  prin- 
ciple of  life  within  them  ;  and  that  the  gay  tendrils  of 
the  vine  and  the  blushing  buds  of  the  rose  will  soon 
be  put  forth  in  the  breath  of  summer.  The  stiffened 
earth,  he  knows,  will  soon  send  forth  her  children  in 
renewed  beauty,  and  he  believes,  that  he  himself,  leav- 
ing the  chrysalis  form  of  earthly  clay  will  wing  his 
flight  in  the  regions  of  eternity. 


THE  PLAGUE. 


By  Charles  P.  Ilsley. 

"  And  they  lhal  took  the  disease  died  suddenly  ;  and  immediately  their  bodies  became  cov- 
ered with  spots  ;  and  they  were  hurried  away  to  the  grave  without  delay  :  And  the  men 
who  bore  the  corpse,  as  they  went  theft  way,  cried  with  a  loud  voice,  "  Room  for  the  dead  !" 
and  wliosoever  lieard  the  cry,  fled  from  the  sound  thereof  with  great  fear  and  trembling." 


"  ROOM  for  the  dead  !" — a  cry  went  forth — 

"  A  grave — a  grave  prepare  !" 
The  solemn  words  rose  fearfully 

Up  through  the  stilly  air  : 
"  Room  for  the  dead  !" — and  a  corse  was  borne 

And  laid  within  the  pit ; 
But  a  mother's  voice  was  sadly  heard — 
And  a  breaking  heart  was  in  each  word — 

"  Oh,  bury  him  not  yet !" 

The  mother  knelt  beside  the  grave, 

And  prayed  to  see  her  son  ; 
'Twas  death  to  stop — but  by  her  prayers 

The  wretched  boon  was  won, 


THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

And  they  raised  the  coffin  from  the  pit, 

And  then  afar  they  fled — 
For  the  once  fair  face  was  spotted  now — 
But  the  mother  pressed  her  dead  child's  brow, 

And  in  a  faint  voice  said — 

"  Nor  plague  nor  spots  shall  hinder  me 

From  kissing  thce,  lost  one  ! 
For  what,  alas  !  is  life  or  death 

Since  thou  art  gone,  my  son !" 
And  she  bent  and  kissed  the  livid  brow, 

While  tearless  was  her  eye  ; 
Then  her  voice  rang  wildly  in  the  air — 
"  Widow  and  childless ! — God,  is  there 

Aught  left  me  but — to  die  !" 

The  words  were  said,  and  there  uprose 

A  low  and  stifled  moan — 
Then  all  was  still — The  spirit  of 

That  stricken  one  had  flown  ! 


They  widened  the  pit,  and  side  by  side 

Mother  and  son  were  laid  ; 
No  mourning  train  to  the  grave  went  forth, 
Nor  prayer  was  said  as  they  heaped  the  earth 

Above  the  plague-struck  dead  ! 


"OH,  THIS  IS  NOT  MY  HOME!1 

By  Charles  P.  Ilslcy. 

OH,  this  is  not  my  home — 
I  miss  the  glorious  sea, 
Its  white  and  sparkling  foam, 
And  lofty  melody. 

All  things  seem  strange  to  me — 
I  miss  the  rocky  shore, 
Where  broke  so  sullenly 
The  waves  with  deafning  roar : 

The  sands  that  shone  like  gold 
Beneath  the  blazing  sun, 
O'er  which  the  waters  roll'd, 
Soft  chanting  as  they  run  : 

And  oh,  the  glorious  sight ! 
Ships  moving  to  and  fro, 
Like  birds  upon  their  flight, 
So  silently  they  go  ! 

I  climb  the  mountain's  height, 
And  sadly  gaze  around, 
No  waters  meet  my  sight, 
I  hear  no  rushing  sound. 

Oh,  would  I  were  at  home, 
Beside  the  glorious  sea, 
To  bathe  within  its  foam 
And  list  its  melody  ! 


THE  VILLAGE  PRIZE. 


IN  one  of  the  loveliest  villages  of  old  Virginia  there' 
lived,  in  the  year  175-  and  odd,  an  old  man,  whose 
daughter  was  declared,  by  universal  consent,  to  be  the 
loveliest  maiden  in  all  the  country  round.  The  vete- 
ran, in  his  youth,  had  been  athletic  and  muscular  above 
all  his  fellows  ;  and  his  breast,  where  he  always  wore 
them,  could  show  the  adornment  of  three  medals,  re- 
ceived for  his  victories  in  gymnastic  feats  when  a  young 
man.  His  daughter  was  now  eighteen,  and  had  been 
sought  in  marriage  by  many  suitors.  One  brought 
wealth — another,  a  fine  person — another,  industry — 
another,  military  talents — another  this,  and  another 
that.  But  they  were  all  refused  by  the  old  man,  who 
became  at  last  a  by-word  for  his  obstinacy  among  the 
young  men  of  the  village  and  neighborhood.  At  length, 
the  nineteenth  birthday  of  Annette,  his  charming  daugh- 
ter, who  was  as  amiable  and  modest  as  she  was  beautiful, 
arrived.  The  morning  of  that  day,  her  father  invited 
all  the  youth  of  the  country  to  a  hay-making  frolic. 
Seventeen  handsome  and  industrious  young  men  as- 
sembled. They  came  not  only  to  make  hay,  but  also 
to  make  love  to  the  fair  Annette.  In  three  hours  they 
had  filled  the  father's  barns  with  the  newly  dried  grass, 
and  their  own  hearts  with  love.  Annette,  by  her  fa- 
ther's command,  had  brought  them  malt  liquor  of  her 
own  brewing,  which  she  presented  to  each  enamored 
swain  with  her  own  fair  hands. 


THE    VILLAGE    PRIZE.  127 

"  Now  my  boys,"  said  the  old  keeper  of  the  jewel 
they  all  coveted,  as  leaning  on  their  pitch-forks  they 
assembled  around  his  door  in  the  cool  of  the  evening — 
"  Now  my  lads,  you  have  nearly  all  of  you  made  pro- 
posals for  my  Annette.  Now  you  see,  I  don't  care 
any  thing  about  money  nor  talents,  book  larning  nor 
soldier  larning — I  can  do  as  well  by  my  gal  as  any 
man  in  the  county.  But  I  want  her  to  marry  a  man 
of  my  own  grit.  Now,  you  know,  or  ought  to  know, 
when  I  was  a  youngster,  I  could  beat  any  thing  in  all 
Virginny  in  the  way  o'  leaping.  I  got  my  old  woman 
by  beating  the  smartest  man  on  the  Eastern  Shore,  and 
I  have  took  the  oath  and  sworn  it,  that  no  man  shall 
marry  my  daughter  without  jumping  for  it.  You  un- 
derstand me  boys.  There's  the  green,  and  here's 
Annette,"  he  added,  taking  his  daughter,  who  stood 
timidly  behind  him,  by  the  hand,  "  Now  the  one  that 
jumps  the  furthest  on  a  '  dead  level,'  shall  many  An- 
nette this  very  night." 

This  unique  address  was  received  by  the  young  men 
with  applause.  And  many  a  youth  as  he  bounded 
gaily  forward  to  the  arena  of  trial,  cast  a  glance  of 
anticipated  victory  back  upon  the  lovely  object  of  vil- 
lage chivalry.  The  maidens  left  their  looms  and 
quilting  frames,  the  children  their  noisy  sports,  the 
slaves  their  labors,  and  the  old  men  their  arm-chairs 
and  long  pipes,  to  witness  and  triumph  in  the  success 
of  the  victor.  All  prophesied  and  many  wished  that  it 
would  be  young  Carroll.  He  was  the  handsomest  and 
best-humored  youth  in  the  county,  and  all  knew  that 
a  strong  and  mutual  attachment  existed  between  him 
and  the  fair  Annette.  Carroll  had  won  the  reputation 
of  being  the  "  best  leaper,"  and  in  a  country  where 


128         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

such  athletic  achievements  were  the  sine  qua  non  of  a 
man's  cleverness,  this  was  no  ordinary  honor.  In  a 
contest  like  the  present,  he  had  therefore  every  advan- 
tage over  his  fellow  atliletce. 

The  arena  allotted  for  this  hymeneal  contest,  was  a 
level  space  in  front  of  the  village-inn,  and  near  the 
centre  of  a  grass-plat,  reserved  in  the  midst  of  the  vil- 
lage denominated  "  the  green."  The  verdure  was 
quite  worn  off  at  this  place  by  previous  exercises  of  a 
similar  kind,  and  a  hard  surface  of  sand  more  befitting- 
ly  for  the  purpose  to  which  it  was  to  be  used,  supplied 
its  place. 

The  father  of  the  lovely,  blushing,  and  withal  happy 
prize,  (  for  she  well  knew  who  would  win,)  with  three 
other  patriarchal  villagers  were  the  judges  appointed 
to  decide  upon  the  claims  of  the  several  competitors. 
The  last  time  Carroll  tried  his  skill  in  this  exercise,  he 
"  cleared  " — to  use  the  leaper's  phraseology — twenty- 
one  feet  and  one  inch. 

The  signal  was  given,  and  by  lot  the  young  men 
stepped  into  the  arena. 

"  Edward  Grayson,  seventeen  feet,"  cried  one  of 
the  judges.  The  youth  had  done  his  utmost.  He 
was  a  pale,  intellectual  student.  But  what  had  intel- 
lect to  do  in  such  an  arena  1  Without  looking  at  the 
maiden  he  slowly  left  the  ground. 

"  Dick  Boulden,  nineteen  feet."  Dick  with  a  laugh 
turned  away,  and  replaced  his  coat. 

"  Harry  Preston,  nineteen  feet  and  three  inches." 
'•  Well  done  Harry  Preston,"  shouted  the  spectators, 
"  you  have  tried  hard  for  the  acres  and  homestead." 

Harry  also  laughed  and  swore  he  only  "jumped  for 
the  fun  of  the  thing."  IIurrv  was  a  rattle-brained  fel- 


THE    VILLAGE    PRIZE.  129 

low,  but  never  thought  of  matrimony.  He  loved  to 
walk  and  talk,  and  laugh  and  romp  with  Annette,  but 
sober  marriage  never  came  into  his  head.  He  only 
jumped  "  for  the  fun  of  the  thing."  He  would  not 
have  said  so,  if  sure  of  winning. 

"  Charley  Simms,  fifteen  feet  and  a  half."  "  Hur- 
rah for  Charley  !  Charley  '11  win  !  "  cried  the  crowd 
good-humoredly.  Charley  Simms  was  the  cleverest 
fellow  in  the  world.  His  mother  had  advised  him  to 
stay  at  home,  and  told  him  if  he  ever  won  a  wife,  she 
would  fall  in  love  with  his  good  temper,  rather  than 
his  legs.  Charley  however  made  the  trial  of  the  lat- 
ter's  capabilities  and  lost.  Many  refused  to  enter  the 
lists  altogether.  Others  made  the  trial,  and  only  one 
of  the  leapers  had  yet  cleared  twenty  feet. 

"  Now,"  cried  the  villagers,  "  let  's  see  Henry  Car- 
roll. He  ought  to  beat  this,"  and  every  one  appeared, 
as  they  called  to  mind  the  mutual  love  of  the  last  com- 
petitor and  the  sweet  Annette,  as  if  they  heartily  wish- 
ed his  success, 

Henry  stepped  to  his  post  with  a  firm  tread.  His 
eye  glanced  with  confidence  around  upon  the  villagers 
and  rested,  before  he  bounded  forward,  upon  the 
face  of  Annette,  as  if  to  catch  therefrom  that  spirit  and 
assurance  which  the  occasion  called  for.  Returning 
the  encouraging  glance  with  which  she  met  his  own, 
with  a  proud  smile  upon  his  lip,  he  bounded  forward. 

"  Twenty-one  feet  and  a  half !  "  shouted  the  multi- 
tude, repeating  the  announcement  of  one  of  the  judges, 
"  twenty-one  feet  and  a  half.  Harry  Carroll  forever. 
Annette  and  Harry."  Hands,  caps,  and  kerchiefs 
waved  over  the  heads  of  the  spectators,  and  the  eyes 
of  the  delighted  Annette  sparkled  with  joy. 
12 


130         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

When  Harry  Carroll  moved  to  his  station  to  strive 
for  the  prize,  a  tall,  gentlemanly  young  man  in  a  mili- 
tary undress  frock-coat,  who  had  rode  up  to  the  inn, 
dismounted  and  joined  the  spectators,  unperceived, 
while  the  contest  was  going  on.  stepped  suddenly  for- 
ward, and  with  a  "knowing  eye,*'  measured  deliber- 
ately the  space  accomplished  by  the  last  leaper.  lie 
was  a  stranger  in  the  village.  Ills  handsome  face  and 
easy  address  attracted  the  eyes  of  the  village  maidens, 
and  his  manly  and  sinewy  frame,  in  which  symmetry 
and  strength  were  happily  united,  called  forth  the  ad- 
miration of  the  young  men. 

"  Mayhap,  sir  stranger,  you  think  you  can  beat  that," 
said  one  of  the  bystanders,  remarking  the  manner  in 
which  the  eye  of  the  stranger  scanned  the  area.  "  If 
you  can  leap  beyond  Harry  Carroll,  you  '11  beat  the 
best  man  in  the  colonies."  The  truth  of  this  observa- 
tion was  assented  to  by  a  general  murmur. 

"  Is  it  for  mere  amusement  you  are  pursuing  this 
pastime  1 "  inquired  the  youthful  stranger,  "or  is 
there  a  prize  for  the  winner  1  " 

"  Annette,  the  loveliest  and  wealthiest  of  our  village- 
maidens,  is  to  be  the  reward  of  the  victor,"  cried  one 
of  the  judges. 

"  Are  the  lists  open  to  all  7 " 

"All,  young  sir!"  replied  the  father  of  Annette, 
with  interest, — his  youthful  ardour  rising  as  he  survey- 
ed the  proportions  of  the  straight-limbed  young  stran- 
ger. "  She  is  the  bride  of  him  who  out-leaps  Henry 
Carroll.  If  you  will  try,  you  arc  free  to  do  so.  But 
let  me  tell  you.  Harry  Carroll  has  no  rival  in  Virginny. 
Here  is  my  daughter,  sir,  look  at  her  and  make  your 
trial." 


THE    VILLAGE     I'RIZE.  131 

The  young  officer  glanced  upon  the  trembling  maid- 
en about  to  be  offered  on  the  altar  of  her  father's  un- 
conquerable monomania,  with  an  admiring  eye.  The 
poor  girl  looked  at  Harry,  who  stood  near  with  a  trou- 
bled brow  and  angry  eye,  and  then  cast  upon  the  new 
competitor  an  imploring  glance. 

Placing  his  coat  in  the  hands  of  one  of  the  judges,  he 
drew  a  sash  he  wore  beneath  it  tighter  around  his  waist, 
and  taking  the  appointed  stand,  made,  apparently  with- 
out effort,  the  bound  that  was  to  decide  the  happiness 
or  misery  of  Henry  and  Annette. 

"  Twenty  two  feet  one  inch  !  "  shouted  the  judge. 
The  announcement  was  repeated  with  surprise  by  the 
spectators,  who  crowded  around  the  victor,  filling  the 
air  with  congratulations,  not  unminglcd,  however,  with 
loud  murmurs  from  those  who  were  more  nearly  inter- 
ested in  the  happiness  of  the  lovers. 

The  old  man  approached,  and.  grasping  his  hand  ex- 
ultingly,  called  him  his  son,  and  said  he  felt  prouder 
of  him  than  if  he  were  a  prince.  Physical  activity 
and  strength  were  the  old  leaper's  true  patents  of  no- 
bility. 

Resuming  his  coat,  the  victor  sought  with  his  eye 
the  fair  prize  he  had,  although  nameless  and  unknown, 
so  fairly  won.  She  leaned  upon  her  father's  arm,  pale 
and  distressed. 

Her  lover  stood  aloof,  gloomy  and  mortified,  ad- 
miring the  superiority  of  the  stranger  in  an  exercise 
in  which  he  prided  himself  as  unrivalled,  while  he  ha- 
ted him  for  his  success. 

"Annette,  my  pretty  prize,"  said  the  victor,  taking 
her  passive  hand — "  I  have  won  you  fairly."  Annette's 
cheek  became  paler  than  marble  ;  she  trembled  like 


132         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

an  aspen-leaf,  and  clung  closer  to  her  father,  while 
her  drooping  eye  sought  the  form  of  her  lover.  His 
brow  grew  dark  at  the  stranger's  language. 

"  I  have  won  you,  my  pretty  flower,  to  make  you  a 
bride  ! — tremble  not  so  violently — I  mean  not  for  my- 
self, however  proud  I  might  be,"  he  added  with  gallan- 
try, "  to  wear  so  fair  a  gem  next  my  heart.  Perhaps,'' 
and  he  cast  his  eyes  around  inquiringly,  while  the  cur- 
rent of  life  leaped  joyfully  to  her  brow,  and  a  murmur 
of  surprise  run  through  the  crowd — "  perhaps  there  is 
some  favored  youth  among  the  competitors,  who  has  a 
higher  claim  to  this  jewel.  Young  Sir,"  he  continu- 
ed, turning  to  the  surprised  Henry,  "  methinks  you 
were  victor  in  the  lists  before  me, — I  strove  not  for  the 
maiden,  though  one  could  not  well  strive  for  a  fairer — 
but  from  love  for  the  manly  sport  in  which  I  saw  you 
engaged.  You  are  the  victor,  and  as  such,  with  the 
permission  of  this  worthy  assembly,  receive  from  my 
hands  the  prize  you  have  so  well  and  honorably  won." 

The  youth  sprung  forward  and  grasped  his  hand 
with  gratitude  ;  and  the  next  moment,  Annette  was 
weeping  from  pure  joy  upon  his  shoulders.  The  wel- 
kin rung  with  the  acclamations  of  the  delighted  villa- 
gers, and  amid  the  temporary  excitement  produced  by 
this  act,  the  stranger  withdrew  from  the  crowd,  mount- 
ed his  horse,  and  spurred  at  a  brisk  trot  through  the 
village. 

That  night,  Henry  and  Annette  were  married,  and 
the  health  of  the  mysterious  and  noble-hearted  strang- 
er, was  drunk  in  over-flowing  bumpers  of  rustic  bever- 
age. 

In  process  of  time,  there  were  born  unto  the  mar- 
ried pair,  sons  and  daughters,  and  Harry  Carroll  had 


THE    VILLAGE    PRIZE.  133 

become  Colonel  Henry  Carroll,  of  the  Revolutionary 
army. 

One  evening,  having  just  returned  home  after  a  hard 
campaign,  he  was  sitting  with  his  family  on  the  galle- 
ry of  his  handsome  country-house,  when  an  advance 
courier  rode  up  and  announced  the  approach  of  Gene- 
ral Washington  and  suite,  informing  him  that  he  should 
crave  his  hospitality  for  the  night.  The  necessary  di- 
rections were  given  in  reference  to  the  household  prep- 
arations, arid  Col.  Carroll,  ordering  his  horse,  rode  for- 
ward to  meet  and  escort  to  his  house  the  distinguished 
guest,  whom  he  had  never  yet  seen,  although  serving 
in  the  same  widely-extended  army. 

""  That  evening  at  the  table,  Annette,  now  become 
the  dignified,  matronly  and  still  handsome  Mrs.  Carroll, 
could  not  keep  her  eyes  from  the  face  of  her  illustri- 
ous visitor.  Every  moment  or  two  she  would  steal  a 
glance  at  his  commanding  features,  and  half-doubtingly, 
half-assumedly,  shake  her  head  and  look  again  and 
again,  to  be  still  more  puzzled.  Her  absence  of  mind 
and  embarrassment  at  length  became  evident  to  her 
husband  who,  inquired  affectionately  if  she  were  ill  1 

"  I  suspect,  Colonel,"  said  the  General,  who  had 
been  some  time,  with  a  quiet,  meaning  smile,  observing 
the  lady's  curious  and  puzzled  survey  of  his  features — 
"  that  Mrs.  Carroll  thinks  she  recognizes  in  me  an  old 
acquaintance."  And  he  smiled  with  a  mysterious  air, 
as  he  gazed  upon  both  alternately. 

The  Colonel  stared,  and  a  faint  memory  of  the  past 
seemed  to  be  revived,  as  he  gazed,  while  the  lady  rose 
impulsively  from  her  chair,  and  bending  eagerly  for- 
ward over  the  tea-urn,  with  clasped  hands  and  an  eye 


12* 


134         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

of  intense,  eager  inquiry,  fixed  full  upon  him,  stood  for 
a  moment  with  her  lips  parted  as  if  she  would  speak. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  madam — pardon  me,  Colonel, 
I  must  put  an  end  to  this  scene.  I  have  become,  by 
dint  of  camp-fare  and  hard  usage,  too  unwieldy  to  leap 
again  twenty-two  feet  one  inch,  even  for  so  fair  a  bride 
as  one  I  wot  of." 

The  recognition,  with  the  suq^rise,  delight  and  hap- 
piness that  followed,  are  left  to  the  imagination  of  the 
reader. 

General  Washington  was  indeed  the  handsome  young 
"  leaper,"  whose  mysterious  appearance  and  disappear- 
ance in  the  native  village  of  the  lovers,  is  still  tradition- 
ary, and  whose  claim  to  a  substantial  body  ofbonajide 
flesh  and  blood,  was  stoutly  contested  by  the  village 
story-tellers,  until  the  happy  denouement  which  took 
place  at  the  hospitable  mansion  of  Col.  Carroll. 


INDIFFERENCE  TO  STUDY. 

By  George    W.  Light. 

We  only  find  out  what  we  have  a  sincere  desire  to  know.  All  men  har-  in  themselves 
nearly  the  lame  fund  of  primitive  ideas  ;  they  have  especially  the  same  moral  fund ;  the  dif- 
ference which  there  ut  in  men,  come»  from  the  fact,  that  »ome  improve  this  lund,  while  other* 
neglect  it.  Degtrando, 

No  argument  ought  to  be  required  at  the  present  day, 
to  prove  that  all  men,  however  their  capacities  may 
differ  in  kind  or  degree,  possess  the  natural  ability  to 
make  considerable  progress  in  some  useful  study.  The 
principles  of  our  government  proceed  upon  this  ground, 
and  place  every  man  under  strong  moral  obligation  to 


INDIFFERENCE    TO    STUDY.  135 

make  the  most  of  himself,  that  he  may  be  able  to  bear 
the  responsibility  that  rests  upon  him.  The  protestant 
principle,  that  all  men  have  the  right  to  judge  for  them- 
selves in  matters  relating  to  religion,  is  founded  on  the 
same  basis.  Even  the  principles  of  trade — which  eve- 
ry body  is  supposed  to  be  able  to  know — call  for  the 
exercise  of  no  small  amount  of  intellect,  to  understand 
and  apply  them  to  their  full  extent.  The  intimate  con- 
nection between  the  arts  and  sciences  proves  conclu- 
sively, that  those  who  are  engaged  in  the  one,  ought  to 
be  acquainted  with  the  other.  We  are  aware  of  the 
common  belief,  that  the  study  of  the  sciences  is  not 
necessary  with  the  mass  of  the  community  who  are 
engaged  in  the  various  active  pursuits.  But  this  nar- 
row view  is  fast  going  out  of  date.  The  progress  of 
steam,  if  nothing  else,  will  ere  long  convince  the  most 
incredulous,  by  its.  abridgment  of  human  labor,  that 
the  great  body  of  mankind  were  intended  for  something 
besides  mere  machines.  The  sciences  of  law  and 
medicine  are  no  more  closely  connected  with  the  prac- 
tice of  the  lawyer  and  physician,  than  mechanical  and 
agricultural  science  with  the  business  of  the  mechanic 
and  farmer.  The  same  may  be  said  of  other  sciences, 
as,  for  instance,  of  Political  Economy,  in  its  application 
to  mercantile  affairs.  In  accordance  with  the  spirit  of 
these  views,  opportunities  for  instruction  are  provided, 
and  means  of  self-education  are  multiplied,  to  an  un- 
paralleled degree. 

Notwithstanding,  however,  the  general  admission  of 
the  truth  under  consideration,  not  a  few  persons  who 
think  the  improvement  of  their  minds  a  matter  of  little 
importance,  undertake  to  excuse  themselves,  by  mod- 
estly confessing  that  they  have  no  natural  taste  for 


136         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

study — that  they  cannot  study.  But  it  is  difficult  to 
understand  how  they  can  be  so  blinded  to  the  resources 
they  have  within  them,  under  the  light  which  this  day 
of  civilization  is  pouring  upon  them.  Where  do  they 
suppose  themselves  to  be  1  Are  they  in  some  dark 
domain,  shut  out  from  all  the  soul-stirring  influences  of 
a  boundless  universe,  dragging  out  an  existence  as 
hopeless  as  it  is  degraded  1 — or  do  they  dwell  in  the 
midst  of  a  glorious  creation,  with  no  understanding  to 
unravel  its  divine  mysteries,  and  no  heart  to  be  moved 
by  the  eloquence  of  its  inspiration  1  One  of  these 
things  must  be  true,  if  we  may  reason  from  their  own 
language.  If  they  do  possess  the  high  faculties  of  the 
soul,  and  can  do  nothing  for  their  cultivation,  it  cannot 
be  that  they  have  their  dwelling-place  upon  a  world 
belonging  to  the  magnificent  empire  of  God.  There 
can  be  no  sun  blazing  down  upon  them,  flooding  the 
earth  with  his  glory,  and  giving  fresh  life  and  beauty 
to  every  living  thing.  The  evening  can  reveal  to  them 
no  myriads  of  stars,  burning  with  holy  lustre  beyond 
the  clouds  of  heaven.  They  can  sec  no  mountains 
lowering  to  the  skies  ;  no  green  valleys,  spangled  with 
the  flowers  of  the  earth,  smiling  around  them.  They 
can  hear  no  anthem  sounding  from  the  depths  of  the 
ocean.  They  can  see  no  lightnings  flashing  in  the 
broad  expanse, — nor  hear  the  artillery  of  heaven  thun- 
dering over  the  firmament,  as  if  it  would  shake  the 
very  pillars  of  the  universe.  If  they  could  see  and 
hear  this,  with  minds  awake  to  the  most  noble  objects 
of  contemplation,  and  hearts  susceptible  of  the  loftiest 
impulses,  they  would  inquire  about  the  earth  they  tread 
upon,  the  beautiful  things  scattered  in  such  profusion 
around  them,  and  the  sun  and  the  ever-burning  stars 


INDIFFERENCE    TO    STUDY.  137 

above  them.  And  they  would  not  stop  here.  They 
would  search  into  the  mysteries  of  their  own  nature. 
They  would  look  into  the  wonders  of  that  upper  life, 
where  the  £un  of  an  eternal  kingdom  burns  in  its  lofty 
arches,  where  the  rivers  of  life  flow  from  the  everlast- 
ing mountains,  and  where  the  pure  spirits  of  the  earth 
shall  shine  like  the  stars  forever. 

But,  however  paradoxical  it  may  seem,  these  men  do 
dwell  in  the  grand  universe  of  God — and  they  do  pos- 
sess inexhaustible  minds  :  and  they  have  been  compell- 
ed to  quench  the  brightest  flames  and  to  prevent  the 
swelling  of  the  purest  fountains  of  their  existence,  in 
order  to  descend  to  the  condition  of  which  they  com- 
plain. The  Creator  doomed  them  to  no  such  degrada- 
tion. The  truth  is,  they  know  nothing  of  themselves. 
They  do  not  understand  their  relations  to  the  creation 
that  surrounds  them.  They  do  not  comprehend  the 
great  purpose  to  which  all  their  labors  should  tend. 
They  waste  those  hours  which  might  be  devoted  to  the 
elevation  of  their  being,  in  practices  that  render  them 
insensible  to  the  glories  of  the  universe  in  which  they 
dwell,  and  to  the  sublime  destiny  for  which  they  were 
created.  They  deny  themselves  to  be  the  workman- 
ship of  God. 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  AUTEUIL. 


THE  sultry  heat  of  summer  always  brings  with  it,  to 
the  idler  and  the  man  of  leisure,  a  longing  for  the  leafy 
shade  and  the  green  luxuriance  of  the  country.  It  is 
pleasant  to  interchange  the  din  of  the  city,  the  move- 
ment of  the  cro\vd,  and  the  gossip  of  society,  with  the 
silence  of  the  hamlet,  the  quiet  seclusion  of  the  grove, 
and  the  gossip  of  a  \v  oodland  brook. 

It  was  a  feeling  of  this  kind  that  prompted  me,  dur- 
ing my  residence  in  the  north  of  France,  to  pass  one 
of  the  summer  months  at  Auteuil — the  pleasantest  of 
the  many  little  villages  that  lie  in  the  immediate  vicini- 
ty of  the  metropolis.  It  is  situated  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  Bois  dc  Boulogne — a  wood  of  some  extent,  in 
whose  green  alleys  the  dusty  cit  enjoys  the  luxury  of 
an  evening  drive,  and  gentlemen  meet  in  the  morning 
to  give  each  other  satisfaction  in  the  usual  way.  A 
cross-road,  skirted  with  green  hedge-rows,  and  over- 
shadowed by  tall  poplars,  leads  you  from  the  noisy 
highway  of  St.  Cloud  and  Versailles  to  the  still  retire- 
ment of  this  suburban  hamlet.  On  either  side  the  eye 
discovers  old  chateaux  amid  the  trees,  and  green  parks, 
whose  pleasant  shades  recall  a  thousand  images  of  La 
Fontaine,  Racine,  and  Moliere  ;  and  on  an  eminence, 
overlooking  the  windings  of  the  Seine,  and  giving  a 
beautiful  though  distant  view  of  the  domes  and  gardens 
of  Paris,  rises  the  village  of  Passy,  long  the  residence 
of  our  countrymen  Franklin  and  Count  Rumford. 


THE    VILLAGE    OF    AUTETJIL.  139 

I  took  up  my  abode  at  a  Maison  de  Sante ;  not  that 
I  was  a  valetudinarian, — but  because  I  there  found 
some  one  to  whom  I  could  whisper,  "  How  sweet  is 
solitude  !  "  Behind  the  house  was  a  garden  filled  with 
fruit-trees  of  various  kinds,  and  adorned  with  gravel- 
walks  and  green  arbours,  furnished  with  tables  and 
rustic  seats,  for  the  repose  of  t-he  invalid  and  the  sleep 
of  the  indolent.  Here  the  inmates  of  the  rural  hospital 
met  on  common  ground,  to  breathe  the  invigorating 
air  of  morning,  and  while  away  the  lazy  noon  or  va- 
cant evening  Avith  tales  of  the  sick  chamber. 

The  establishment  was  kept  by  Dr.  Dent-de-lion,  a 
dried  up  little  fellow,  with  red  hair,  a  sandy  complex- 
ion, and  the  physiognomy  and  gestures  of  a  monkey. 
His  character  corresponded  to  his  outward  lineaments ; 
for  he  had  all  a  monkey's  busy  and  curious  imperti- 
nence. Nevertheless,  such  as  he  was,  the  village  ^Es- 
culapius  strutted  forth  the  little  great  man  of  Auteuil. 
The  peasants  looked  up  to  him  as  to  an  oracle, — he 
contrived  to  be  at  the  head  of  every  thing,  and  laid 
claim  to  the  credit  of  all  public  improvements  in  the 
village  :  in  fine,  he  was  a  great  man  on  a  small  scale. 

It  was  within  the  dingy  walls  of  this  little  potentate's 
imperial  palace  that  I  chose  my  country  residence.  I 
had  a  chamber  in  the  second  story,  with  a  solitary 
window,  which  looked  upon  the  street,  and  gave  me  a 
peep  into  a  neighbor's  garden.  This  I  esteemed  a  great 
privilege  ;  for,  as  a  stranger,  I  desired  to  see  all  that 
was  passing  out  of  doors  ;  and  the  sight  of  green  trees, 
though  growing  on  another  man's  ground,  is  always  a 
blessing.  Within  doors — had  I  been  disposed  to  quar- 
rel with  my  household  gods — -I  might  have  taken  some 
objection  to  my  neighborhood ;  for,  on  one  side  of  me 


140         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

was  a  consumptive  patient,  whose  graveyard  cough 
drove  me  from  my  chamber  hy  day ;  and  on  the  other, 
an  English  colonel,  whose  incoherent  ravings,  in  the 
delirium  of  a  high  and  obstinate  fever,  often  broke  my 
slumbers  by  night :  but  I  found  ample  amends  for  these 
inconveniences  in  the  society  of  those  who  were  so 
little  indisposed  as  hardly  to  know  what  ailed  them, 
and  those  who,  in  health  themselves,  had  accompanied 
a  friend  or  relative  to  the  shades  of  the  country  in  pur- 
suit of  it.  To  these  I  am  indebted  for  much  courtesy ; 
'and  particularly  to  one  who,  if  these  pages  should  ever 
meet  her  eye,  will  not,  I  hope,  be  unwilling  to  accept 
this  slight  memorial  of  a  former  friendship. 

It  was,  however,  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  that  I 
looked  for  my  principal  recreation.  There  I  took  my 
solitary  walk,  morning  and  evening ;  or,  mounted  on  a 
little  mouse-colored  donkey,  paced  demurely  along  the 
woodland  pathway.  I  had  a  favorite  seat  beneath  the 
shadow  of  a  venerable  oak,  one  of  the  few  hoary  patri- 
archs of  the  wood  which  had  survived  the  bivouacs  of 
the  allied  armies.  It  stood  upon  the  brink  of  a  little 
glassy  pool,  whose  tranquil  bosom  was  the  image  of  a 
quiet  and  secluded  life,  and  stretched  its  parental  arms 
over  a  rustic  bench,  that  had  been  constructed  beneath 
it  for  the  accommodation  of  the  foot-traveller,  or,  per- 
chance, some  idle  dreamer  like  myself.  It  seemed  to 
look  round  with  a  lordly  air  upon  its  old  hereditary 
domain,  whose  stillness  was  no  longer  broken  by  the 
tap  of  the  martial  drum,  nor  the  discordant  clang  of 
arms  ;  and,  as  the  breeze  whispered  among  its  branch- 
es, it  seemed  to  be  holding  friendly  colloquies  with  a 
few  of  its  venerable  contemporaries,  who  stooped  from 
the  opposite  bank  of  the  pool,  nodding  gravely  now  and 


THE    VILLAGE    OF    AUTEU1L.  141 

then,  and  ogling  themselves  with  a  sigh  in  the  mirror 
below. 

In  this  quiet  haunt  of  rural  repose  I  used  to  sit  at 
noon,  hear  the  hirds  sing,  and  "  possess  myself  in  much 
quietness."  Just  at  my  feet  lay  the  little  silver  pool, 
with  the  sky  and  the  woods  painted  in  its  mimic  vault, 
and  occasionally  the  image  of  a  bird,  or  the  soft  watery 
outline  of  a  cloud,  floating  silently  through  its  sunny 
hollows.  The  water-lily  spread  its  broad  green  leaves 
on  the  surface,  and  rocked  to  sleep  a  little  world  of 
insect  life  in  its  golden  cradle.  Sometimes  a  wander- 
ing leaf  came  floating  and  wavering  downward,  and 
settled  on  the  water ;  then  a  vagabond  insect  would 
break  the  smooth  surface  into  a  thousand  ripples,  or  a 
green-coated  frog  slide  from  the  bank,  and  plump  ! 
dive  headlong  to  the  bottom. 

I  entered,  too,  with  some  enthusiasm,  into  all  the 
rural  sports  and  merrimakes  of  the  village.  The  holy- 
days  were  so  many  little  eras  of  mirth  and  good,  feel- 
ing ;  for  the  French  have  that  happy  and  sunshine  tem- 
perament— that  meny-go-mad  character — which  makes 
all  their  social  meetings  scenes  of  enjoyment  and  hilari- 
ty. I  made  it  a  point  never  to  miss  any  of  the  Fetes 
Champetres,  or  rural  dances,  at  the  wood  of  Boulogne  ; 
though  I  confess  it  sometimes  gave  me  a  momentary 
uneasiness  to  see  my  rustic  throne  beneath  the  oak 
usurped  by  a  noisy  group  of  girls,  the  silence  and  de- 
corum of  my  imaginary  realm  broken  by  music  and 
laughter,  and,  in  a  word,  my  whole  kingdom  turned 
topsyturvy,  with  romping,  fiddling,  and  dancing.  But 
I  am  naturally,  and  from  principle,  too,  a  lover  of  all 
those  innocent  amusements  which  cheer  the  laborers' 
toil,  and,  as  it  were,  put  their  shoulders  to  the  wheel  of 
13 


142  THE    PORTLAND    SKETCH    BOOK. 

life,  and  help  the  poor  man  along  with  his  load  of  cares. 
Hence  I  saw  with  no  small  delight  the  rustic  swain 
astride  the  wooden  horse  of  the  carrousal,  and  the  vil- 
lage maiden  whirling  round  and  round  in  its  dizzy  car  ; 
or  took  my  stand  on  a  rising  ground  that  overlooked 
the  dance,  an  idle  spectator  in  a  busy  throng.  It  was 
just  where  the  village  touched  the  outward  border  of 
the  wood.  There  a  little  area  had  been  levelled  be- 
neath the  trees,  surrounded  by  a  painted  rail,  with  a 
row  of  benches  inside.  The  music  was  placed  in  a 
slight  balcony,  built  around  the  trunk  of  a  large  tree  in 
the  centre,  and  the  lamps,  hanging  from  the  branches 
above,  gave  a  gay,  fantastic,  and  fairy  look  to  the 
scene.  How  often  in  such  moments  did  I  recall  the 
lines  of  Goldsmith,  describing  those  "  kinder  skies," 
beneath  which  "France  displays  her  bright  domain,'1 
and  feel  how  true  and  masterly  the  sketch. — 

Alike  all  a  jes ;  (bines  of  ancient  days 
Havre  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze, 
And  the  g-ay  gmndsire,  skilled  in  <restic  lure, 
Has  disk"!  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore. 


(  was  one  morning  called  to  my  window  by  the 
sound  of  rustic  music.  I  looked  out,  and  beheld  a  pro- 
cession of  villagers  advancing  along  the  road,  attired  in 
gay  dresses,  and  marching  merrily  on  in  the  direction 
of  the  church.  I  soon  perceived  that  it  was  a  marriage 
festival.  The  procession  was  led  by  a  long  orang- 
outang of  a  man,  in  a  straw  hat  and  white  dimity  bob- 
coat,  playing  on  an  asthmatic  clarionet,  from  which  he 
contrived  to  blow  unearthly  sounds,  ever  and  anon 
squeaking  off  at  right  angles  from  his  tune,  and  wind- 
ing up  with  a  grand  flourish  on  the  guttural  notes. 


THE    VILLAGE    OF    AUTEUIL.  143 

Behind  him,  led  by  his  little  boy,  came  the  blind  fid- 
dler, his  honest  features  glowing  with  all  the  hilarity  of 
a  rustic  bi'idal,  and,  as  he  stumbled  along,  sawing  away 
upon  his  fiddle  till  he  made  all  crack  again.  Then 
came  the  happy  bridegroom,  dressed  in  his  Sunday 
suit  of  blue,  with  a  large  nosegay  in  his  button-hole, 
and  close  beside  hirn  his  blushing  bride,  with  downcast 
eyes,  clad  in  a  white  robe  and  slippers,  and  wearing  a 
wreath  of  white  roses  in  her  hair.  The  friends  and 
relatives  brought  up  the  procession  ;  and  a  troop  of  vil- 
lage urchins  came  shouting  along  in  the  rear,  scram- 
bling among  themselves  for  the  largess  of  sous  and 
sugar-plums  that  now  and  then  issued  in  large  handfuls 
from  the  pockets  of  a  lean  man  in  black,  who  seemed 
to  officiate  as  master  of  ceremonies  on  the  occasion. 
I  gazed  on  the  procession  till  it  was  out  of  sight ;  and 
when  the  last  wheeze  of  the  clarionet  died  upon  my 
ear,  I  could  not  help  thinking  how  happy  were  they 
who  were  thus  to  dwell  together  in  the  peaceful  bosom 
of  their  native  village,  far  from  the  gilded  misery  and 
the  pestilential  vices  of  the  town. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  I  was  sitting  by  the 
window,  enjoying  the  freshness  of  the  air  and  the  beau- 
ty and  stillness  of  the  hour,  when  I  heard  the  distant 
and  solemn  hymn  of  the  Catholic  burial-service,  at  first 
so  faint  and  indistinct  that  it  seemed  an  illusion.  It 
rose  mournfully  on  the  hush  of  evening — died  gradu- 
ally away — then  ceased.  Then  it  rose  again,  nearer 
and  more  distinct,  and  soon  after  a  funeral  procession 
appeared,  and  passed  directly  beneath  my  window.  It 
was  led  by  a  priest,  bearing  the  banner  of  the  church, 
and  followed  by  two  boys,  holding  long  flambeaux  in 
their  hands.  Next  came  a  double  file  of  priests  in 


144  THE    PORTLAND    SKETCH    BOOK. 

white  surplices,  with  a  missal  in  one  hand  and  a  light- 
ed  wax  taper  in  the  other,  chanting  the  funeral  dirge 
at  intervals, — now  pausing,  and  then  again  taking  up 
the  mournful  burden  of  their  lamentation,  accompanied 
bv  others,  who  played  upon  a  rude  kind  of  horn,  with 
a  dismal  and  wailing  sound.  Then  followed  various 
symbols  of  tin-  church,  and  the  bier  borne  on  the 
shoulders  of  four  men.  The  coffin  was  covered  with  a 
black  velvet  pall,  and  a  chaplet  of  white  flowers  lay 
upon  it,  indicating  that  the  deceased  was  unmarried. 
A  few  of  the  villagers  came  behind,  clad  in  mourning 
robes,  and  bearing  lighted  tapers.  The  procession 
passed  slowly  along  the  same  street  that  in  the  morning 
had  been  thronged  by  the  gay  bridal  company.  A 
melancholy  train  of  thought  forced  itself  home  upon 
my  mind.  The  joys  and  sorrows  of  this  world  are  so 
strikingly  mingled  !  Our  mirth  and  grief  are  brought  so 
mournfully  in  contact!  We  laugh  while  others  weep, 
and  others  rejoice  when  we  are  sad  !  The  light  heart 
and  the  heavy  walk  side  by  side,  and  go  about  toge- 
ther! Beneath  the  same  roof  arc  spread  the  wedding 
feast  and  the  funeral  pall  !  The  bridal  song  mingles 
with  the  burial  hymn  !  One  goes  to  the  marriage  bed, 
another  to  the  grave  ;  and  all  is  mutable,  uncertain, 
and  transitory. 


THE  PAST  AND  THE  NEW  YEAR. 


By    Pivntiss    M. 


THE  close  of  the  year,  whose  last  knell  has  just  been 
heard,  amid  the  chills  and  gloom  of  winter,  when  all 
around  reminds  us  of  our  departed  friends  and  the  loss 
we  have  sustained,  is  peculiarly  adapted  to  arouse  us 
from  our  inattention  to  the  lapse  of  time,  and  impress 
on  our  hearts  the  solemn  truth  that  life  itself  is  but  a 
vapor.  Many,  it  is  true,  when  they  look  into  the  grave 
of  the  year,  may  experience  a  rush  of  bitter  feeling, 
as  they  fondly  recollect  how  many  cherished  hopes 
they  have  been  called  upon  to  bury  in  the  tomb,  during 
the  lapse  of  the  year  :  how  many  friends  have  proved 
false  or  ungrateful — how  many  of  their  suns  have  gone 
down  in  the  gloom  .of  solitude,  or  amidst  scenes  of 
sickness  and  poverty,  or  of  sighing  and  sorrow.  All 
this  is  true,  and  such  ever  has  been  and  ever  will  be 
the  complexion  of  human  life.  But  though  thousands 
are  thus  educated  in  a  school  where  such  is  the  salutary 
discipline,  yet  millions  have  been  spending  the  year  in 
peace  and  joy — in  health  and  abundance.  Their  jour- 
ney has  been  gladdened  with  sunshine,  and  their  course 
has  been  through  fields  of  beauty  and  beside  "  the  still 
waters  of  comfort."  It  is  useful — it  is  a  species  of 
gratitude  thus  to  look  back  and  trace  the  course  we 
have  been  pursuing.  If  it  has  been  delightful  or  smooth 
and  peaceful,  our  hearts  should  melt  in  tenderness 
while  we  look  to  the  fountain  of  all  our  blessings.  If 
our  course  has  been  wearisome  through  fields  of  sterili- 
13* 


146         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

ty,  or  melancholy  and  companionless,  \vc  should  remem- 
ber that  Wisdom  and  Goodness  preside  over  our  desti- 
nies, whether  we  are  breasting  the  storm,  or  calmly 
beholding  the  rainbow  of  promise.  The  year  that  has 
bidden  us  adieu,  was  pleasant  in  its  course,  and  its  de- 
cline gradual  and  beautiful.  An  unusual  degree  of 
softness  distinguished  its  autumn,  resembling  the  last 
years  of  the  life  of  man,  when  the  agitation  of  the  pas- 
sions has  in  a  great  measure  subsided  ;  when  his  feel- 
ings have  become  tranquilized,  and  all  around  him 
peaceful  and  serene,  if  he  has  been  careful  to  regulate 
his  conduct,  on  life's  journey,  by  the  principles  of  jus- 
tice and  the  commands  of  duty — if  in  his  social  inter- 
course his  passions  have  been  preserved  in  due  subjec- 
tion to  the  gentle  influences  of  a  benevolent  heart, 
displaying  itself  in  acts  of  mercy  like  the  good  Samar- 
itan. 

"  Sure  th<;  last  en'l 

Of  che  good  man  u  poace.    How  CiJm  his  eiit '. 
Night  dew«  fall  not  more  gently  on  the  ground. 

The  new  year  to  which  we  have  just  been  introdu- 
ced is,  in  one  sense,  a  perfect  stranger,  though  we  have 
long  been  intimate  with  ihe  family  to  which  it  belongs, 
and  of  course  have  some  general  acquaintance  with 
certain  features  of  its  character,  leading  us  to  antici- 
pate its  promises  and  its  failure  to  perform  them  in 
many  instances, — its  smiles  and  its  tears — its  flatteries 
and  its  frowns — its  gaieties  and  hopes — its  gradual  de- 
cline— decay  and  dissolution  : — but  we  have  abundant 
reason  too  for  indulging  the  belief  that  we  may  enjoy 
thousands  of  blessings,  if  we  are  disposed  to  cherish 
proper  feelings — ta  be  kind  and  courteous  and  obliging, 


THE    PAST    AND    THE    NEW    YEAR.  147 

and  ever  on  our  guard  to  avoid  unnecessarily  wounding 
the  feelings  of  others ;  ever  ready  to  acknowlege  the 
favors  we  receive,  and  render  a  suitable  return.  How 
easily  all  this  may  be  done  !  How  often  is  it  grossly 
neglected  !  He  who  consults  his  own  ease  and  com- 
fort cannot  in  any  manner  attain  the  desired  result  so 
readily  and  certainly,  as  by  habitually  consulting  the 
ease  and  comfort  of  others,  with  whom  he  is  in  the 
habit  of  associating  :  and  this  is  true  politeness  also. 
A  man  who  is  dissatisfied  with  himself  and  those  around 
him,  and  laboring  under  the  darkening  influence  of  dis- 
turbed or  morose  feelings  "  may  travel  from  Dan  to 
Beersheba  and  say  it  is  all  barren ; " — to  him  it  will 
appear  so ;  and  the  effect  would  be  the  same  if  his 
journey  lay  amidst  the  most  delightful  scenes  of  rural 
beauty^  The  seasons  of  the  year  all  give  their  annual 
fessons  for  instruction :  It  is  our  wisdom  to  regard  them 
carefully.  Spring  summons  us  all  to  cheerful  activity, 
with  assurances  that  our  labor  will  not  be  in  vain. 
Summer  performs  what  Spring  had  promised,  and 
shews  us  the  advantage  of  listening  to  early  instruction 
and  wisely  improving  it.  Ten  thousand  songsters  are 
filling  the  branches  with  their  animating  strains  of  mu- 
sic and  gratitude,  and  teaching  us  to  enjoy,  as  they  do, 
the  countless  blessings  and  bounties  of  nature  ;  their 
music  is  never  failing — nor  do  we  sec  it  ending  in  dis- 
cords. Let  us  all,  as  we  journey  onward  together 
through  the  year,  learn  to  tune  our  hearts  as  they  do 
their  voices,  and  pass  the  fleeting  period  in  harmony, 
and  in  that  cheerfulness  which  the  excellent  Addison 
has  honored  with  the  name  of  a  continual  expression  of 
gratitude  to  Heaven.  In  Germany  the  study  and  prac- 
tice of  music  are  general  among  the  people.  Besides 


148         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

other  advantages  resulting  from  making  music  a  part 
of  common  education,  it  is  not  romantic  or  Utopian  to 
observe  that  it  teaches  how  easily  music — pure  and 
surpassing  music — may  be  made  on  the  same  instru- 
ment, which  under  an  ignorant  or  purposed  touch  will 
send  forth  discords  in  prodigious  varieties.  He  who 
has  become  acquainted  with  the  instrument,  though 
not  a  master  of  it,  well  knows  how  to  avoid  those  com- 
binations of  sound  which  are  painful  to  the  ear,  and 
often  tend  to  disturb  feelings  and  passions.  What 
tones  are  sweeter  than  those  produced  by  the  gentle 
breeze  of  heaven  in  passing  over  the  strings  of  the 
yEolian  Harp  1  The  reason  is,  those  strings  are  so 
attuned  as  that  their  vibrations  will  not  respond  except 
in  notes  of  harmony  :  but  only  disorder  the  strings,  by 
increasing  the  tension  of  some  and  decreasing  that  of 
others,  and  the  sweetest  zephyr  will  produce  nothing 
but  the  vilest  discords,  resembling  angry  passions.  Let 
us  then,  in  our  journey  through  the  year  on  which  wo 
have  entered,  acquire  as  much  as  possible  a  knowledge 
of  the  science  and  the  art.  of  social  and  domestic  moral 
music.  Let  us  learn  to  measure  our  time  with  care,  to 
cultivate  our  i-oices,  that  they  may  lose  all  harshness  ; 
let  each  attend  to  his  own  part,  and  strive  to  excel  in 
that.  Let  us  consider  OUT  feelings,  passions  and  dis- 
positions, as  the  strings  of  the  Harp ;  and  the  ordina- 
ry events  of  life  as  the  Irrcezes  which  give  vibration 
to  the  strings  :  if  these  strings — our  feelings,  passions 
and  dispositions — arc  in  proper  tune — under  due  regu- 
lation, and  preserving  a  just  relation,  each  to  all  the 
others,  we  have  then  all  the  elements  of  moral  music, 
domestic  and  social,  and  in  a  few  weeks,  by  due  regard 
to  all  the  principles  and  arrangement  above  mentioned, 


THE    PAST    -AXD    THE    NEW    YEAR.  149 

we  shall  soon  be  good  scholars,  Airing  and  receiving 
all  that  pleasure  which  harmony  can  afford  ;  and  as 
the  sober  autumn  advances,  our  luslcs  for  this  kind  of 
music  will  be  more  and  more  ripened  towards  perfec- 
tion ;  and  when  the  cold  decenibcrl  y  evenings  shall  ar- 
rive, we  can  listen  to  the  angry  music  of  the  elements 
abroad,  full  of  discordant  strains,  sweeping  by  our  peace- 
ful homes,  while  within  them  all  may  be  the  music 
of  the  heartT  in  its  gentlest  movements. 

It  is"  a  melancholy  truth  that  we  ourselves  manufac- 
ture seven  eighths  of  what  we  are  disposed  to  term  our 
misfortunes  in  this  world.  Want  of  precaution  mars 
our  arrangements  :  want  of  prudence  exposes  us  to 
dangers  which  we  might  easily  have  avoided — want  of 
patience  often  hurries  us  into  difficulties,  and  disquali- 
fies us  to  bear  them  with  calmness  or  decency.  In- 
dulgence in  follies  and  fashions  often  plants  the  seeds 
of  wasting  disease.  Intemperance  in  our  passions  al- 
ways is  followed  by  unwelcome  sensations,  and  some- 
times with  a  sense  of  shame.  Stimulants  are  succeed- 
ed by  debility,  and  when  they  are  used  to  excess,  we 
know  and  daily  witness  the  dreadful  results — if  death 
is  not  one  of  them — either  the  death  of  the  offender,  or 
of  some  other  destroyed  by  his  hand  in  the  tempest  of 
infuriated  passions — we  arc  too  often  compelled  to 
mourn  over  the  desolation  they  occasion — presenting 
in  one  view, 

"  Hato  —  £rief— despair  —  the  family  of  pain." 


THE  RUIN  OF  A  NIGHT. 

STAX/.AS    SUGCEifKO    ON    VIEWING    THE    GROf.ND    OF      THE 
GRKAT    KIRK    IN    NEW-YOKK. 

By    GrenTill.-    Mvllcn. 

It  was  still  noon — and  Sabbath.     The  pale  air 
Hung  over  the  great  city  like  a  shroud — 
And  echo  answer'd  to  a  footstep  there, 
Where  late  went  up  the  thunder  of  a  crowd  ! 
I  wander'd  like  a  pilgrim  round  the  piles 
That  Ruin  heap'd  about  the  wildering  way — 
And  as  I  pass'd,  I  saw  the  withering  smiles 
That  did  on  faces  of  dull  gazers  play, 
As  they  stood  round  the  ashes  of  that  grave 
Of  all  that  yesterday  rose  there,  so  broad  and  brave  ! 

I  mus'd  as  I  went  thro1  the  shadowy  path 
Of  broken,  blackenM  walls,  and  pillars  high, 
Which  had  surviv'd  that  visiting  of  wrath, 
And  now  lean'd  dim  against  the  lurid  sky — 
I  heard  the  rude  laugh  break  from  ruder  hearts, 
Those  ruffian  exclamations  of  lost  souls, 
At  which  a  better  spirit  wakes  and  starts — 
The  revelry  of  demons  o'er  their  bowls — 
Until  I  felt  how  faint  rebuke  may  fall 
Over  a  people,  tho'  it  come  in  sword  and  pall  ! 

There  was  no  lesson  in  that  mighty  pyre — 

Or,  if  it  rose,  it  faded  with  the  flame  ; 

And  crime,  relentless,  from  that  smouldering  fire 

Would  lift,  at  night,  its  stealthy  arm  the  same 

On  the  lone  wanderer,  as,  amid  the  crowd, 

It  glided  oft  before,  to  filch  its  gold, 

When  the  great  voice  of  rivalry  was  loud, 


THE    RUIN    OF    A    NIGHT.  151 

And  onward  the  deep  tide  of  commerce  roll'd ! 
I  thought  how  idle  was  the  darkest  ban, 
Fate,  in  her  fiercest  eloquence,  can  pour  on  man  ! 

I  thought  how  quick  the  seal  of  nothingness 
Is  set  on  man's  best  glory — and  how  deep  ! 
How  soon  the  Greatest  grovels  with  the  Less, 
And  they  who  shouted  bravest,  bow  to  weep  ! 
How  quick  the  veriest  triumph  of  our  years, 
Fulfill' d  by  a  dim  life  of  toil  and  pain, 
Is  changed  to  one  sad  festival  of  tears — 
When  Time  is  but  a  storm — and  visions  wane  ! 
How  quick  Destruction  can  make  classical 
The  crowded,  golden  ground,  where  her  fell  footsteps 
fall! 

The  ground  that  yesterday  was  consecrate 
To  the  wild  spirit-power  of  Gold  and  Gain — 
Where  riches,  like  some  thing  of  worship  sate, 
And  Worth  of  Wealth  ask'd  precedence  in  vain  ! 
Where  the  hard  hand  was  busy  with  the  dust 
With  which  it  soon  must  mingle — though  it  gleam 
Often  with  jewels — splendid,  but  accurst, 
That  make  the  trappings  of  this  Life's  poor  dream  ! 
And  where,  too,  Bounty,  like  a  fountain,  sprung, 
In  streams,  though  not  unfelt,  in  shadow,  and  unsung ! 

Alas  !  that  pillar'd  pile  !  how,  as  I  gaz'd 
Upon  the  blacken'd  shafts,  did  I  recall 
The  sculptur'd  marble  there,  whose  brow  was  rais'd 
So  like  a  god's,  within  that  shadowy  hall ! 
Immortal  HAMILTON  ! — though  crumbled  deep 
In  the  red  chaos  of  that  billowy  night, 
It  needs  no  chisel's  memory  to  keep 
Thy  spirit's  nobler  outline  vast  and  bright ! 
No  Time — no  element  can  mar  the  fame, 
Gather'd,like  fadeless  sunlight,  round  thy  spotless  name! 


COURTSHIP. 

By    SVm.    L.  McCIiiHuck. 

AFTER  my  sleighride,  last  winter,  and  tlic  slippery 
trick  I  was  served  by  Patty  Bean,  nobody  would  sus- 
pect me  of  hankering  after  the  women  again  in  a  hurry. 
To  hear  me  curse  and  swear  and  rail  out  against  the 
whole  feminine  gender,  you  would  have  taken  it  for 
granted  that  I  should  never  so  much  as  look  at  one 
again,  to  all  eternity — O,  but  I  was  wicked.  "  Darn 
and  blast  their  eyes — says  I. — Blame  their  skins — lor- 
ment  their  hearts  and  darn  them  to  darnation."  Fi- 
nally I  took  an  oath  and  swore  that  if  I  ever  meddled 
or  had  any  dealings  with  them  again  (in  the  sparking 
line  I  mean)  I  wish  I  might  be  hung  and  choked. 

But  swearing  off  from  women,  and  then  going  into  a 
meeting  house  chock  full  of  gals,  all  shining  and  glis- 
tening in  their  Sunday  clothes  and  clean  faces,  is  like 
swearing  off  from  liquor  and  going  into  a  grog  shop. 
It's  all  smoke. 

I  held  out  and  kept  firm  to  my  oath  for  three  whole 
Sundays.  Forenoons,  a'ternoons  and  intermissions  com- 
plete. On  the  fourth,  there  were  strong  symptoms  of 
a  change  of  weather.  A  chap,  about  my  size  was 
seen  on  the  way  to  the  meeting  house,  with  a  new  pa- 
tent hat  on  ;  his  head  hung  by  the  ears  upon  a  shirt 
collar ;  his  cravat  had  a  pudding  in  it  and  branched 
out  in  front,  into  a  double  bow  knot.  He  carried  a 
straight  back  and  a  stiff  neck,  as  a  man  ought  to,  when 


COURTSHIP.  153 

he  has  his  best  clothes  on  ;  and  every  time  he  spit,  he 
sprung  his  body  forward,  like  a  jack-knife,  in  order  to 
shoot  clear  of  the  ruffles. 

Squire  Jones'  pew  is  next  but  two  to  mine  ;  and 
when  I  stand  up  to  prayers  and  take  my  coat  tail  under 
my  arm,  and  turn  my  back  to  the  minister,  I  naturally 
look  right  straight  at  Sally  Jones.  Now  Sally  lias  got 
a  face  not  to  be  grinned  at,  in  a  fog.  Indeed,  as  re- 
gards beauty,  some  folks  think  she  can  pull  an  even 
yoke  with  Patty  Bean.  For  my  part,  I  think  there  is 
not  much  boot  between  them.  Any  how,  they  are  so 
nigh  matched  that  they  have  hated  and  despised  each 
other,  like  rank  poison,  ever  since  they  were  school- 
girls. 

Squire  Jones  had  got  his  evening  fire  on,  and  set 
himself  down  to  reading  the  great  bible,  when  he  heard 
a  rap  at  his  door.  "  Walk  in. — Well,  John,  how  der 
do  1  Git  out,  Pompey. — Pretty  well,  I  thank  ye,  Squire, 
and  how  do  you  do  1 — Why,  so  as  to  be  crawling — ye 
ugly  beast,  will  ye  hold  yer  yop — haul  up  a  chair  and 
set  down,  John. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Jones  1  O,  middlin',  how's 
yer  marm  I  Don't  forget  the  mat,  there,  Mr.  Beedle." 
This  put  me  in  mind  that  I  had  been  off  soundings 
several  times,  in  the  long  muddy  lane  ;  and  my  boots 
were  in  a  sweet  pickle. 

It  was  now  old  Captain  Jones'  turn,  the  grandfather. 
Being  roused  from  a  doze,  by  the  bustle  and  racket,  he 
opened  both  his  eyes,  at  first  with  wonder  and  aston- 
ishment. At  last  he  began  to  halloo  so  loud  that  you 
might  hear  him  a  mile  ;  for  he  takes  it  for  granted 
thaVevery  body  is  just  exactly  as  deaf  as  he  is. 

"Who  is  it'T  I  say, 'who  in  the  world  is  it!"     Mrs. 
14 


154         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

Jones  going  close  to  his  ear,  screamed  out,  "  it's  Johnny 
Becdle." — "  Ho — Johnny  Bcedle.  I  remember,  lie 
was  one  summer  at  the  siege  of  Boston.'1 — "  No,  no, 
father,  bless  your  heart,  that  was  his  grandfather,  that's 
been  dead  and  gone  this  twenty  year.  " — "  Ho, — But 
where  docs  he  come  from  V — Daown  taown. — Ho. — 
And  what  docs  he  follow  for  a  livin,7" — And  he  did 
not  stop  asking  questions,  after  this  sort,  till  all  the 
particulars  of  the  Beedle  family  were  published  and 
proclaimed  in  Mrs.  Jones'  last  screech.  lie  then  sunk 
back  into  his  doze  again. 

The  dog  stretched  himself  before  one  andiron  ;  the 
cat  squat  down  before  the  other.  Silence  came  on  by 
degrees,  like  a  calm  snow  storm,  till  nothing  was  heard 
but  a  cricket  under  the  hearth,  keeping  tune  with  a 
sappy  yellow  birch  forcstick.  Sally  sat  up  prim,  as  if 
she  were  pinned  to  the  chair-back  ;  her  hands  crossed 
genteelly  upon  her  lap,  and  her  eyes  looking  straight 
into  the  fire.  Mammy  Jones  tried  to  straighten  herself 
too,  and  laid  her  hands  across  in  her  lap.  But  they 
would  not  lay  still.  It  was  full  twenty-four  hours  since 
they  had  done  any  work,  and  they  were  out  of  all 
patience  with  keeping  Sunday. — Do  what  she  would  to 
keep  them  quiet,  they  would  bounce  up,  now  and  then, 
and  go  through  the  motions,  in  spite  of  the  fourth  com- 
mandment. For  my  part  7  sat  looking  very  much 
like  a  fool.  The  more  I  tried  to  say  something  the 
more  my  tongue  stuck  fast.  I  put  my  right  leg  over 
the  left  and  said  "hem."  Then  1  changed,  and  put 
the  left  leg  over  the  right.  It  was  no  use  ;  the  silence 
kept  coming  on  thicker  and  thicker.  The  drops  of 
sweat  began  to  crawl  all  over  me.  I  got  my  eye  upon 
my  hat,  hanging  on  a  peg,  on  the  road  to  the  door ; 


COURTSHIP.  155 

and  then  I  eyed  the  door.  At  this  moment,  the  old 
Captain,  all  at  once  sung  out  "Johnny  Beedle  !"  It 
sounded  like  a  clap  of  thunder,  and  I  started  right  up 
an  eend. 

"  Johnny  Beedle,  you'll  never  handle  sich  a  drum- 
stick as  your  father  did,  if  yer  live  to  the  age  of  Me- 
thusaler.  He  would  toss  up  his  drumstick,  and  while 
it  was  whirlin'  in  the  air,  take  off  a  gill  er  rum,  and 
then  ketch  it  as  it  come  down,  without  losin'  a  stroke 
in  the  tune.  What  d'ye  think  of  that,  ha  1  But  scull 
your  chair  round,  close  along  side  er  me,  so  yer  can 
hear. — Now,  what  have  you  come  a'ter  1 — I — a'ter  1 
O,  jest  takin'  a  walk.  Pleasant  walkin'  I  guess.  I 
mean  jest  to  see  how  ye  all  do.  Ho. — That's  another 
lie.  You've  come  a  courtin',  Johnny  Beedle  ;  you're 
a'ter  our  Sal.  Say  now,  d'ye  want  to  marry,  or  only 
to  court ?  " 

This  is  what  I  call  a  choker.  Poor  Sally  made  but 
one  jump  and  landed  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen  ;  and 
then  she  skulked  in  the  dark  corner,  till  the  old  man, 
after  laughing  himself  into  a  whooping  cough,  was  put 
to  bed. 

Then  came  apples  and  cider  ;  and,  the  ice  being 
broke,  plenty  chat  with  mammy  Jones  about  the  min- 
ister and  the  '  sarmon.'  I  agreed  with  her  to  a  nicety, 
upon  all  the  points  of  doctrine  ;  but  I  had  forgot  the 
text  and  all  the  heads  of  the  discourse,  but  six.  Then 
she  teazed  and  tormented  me  to  tell  who  I  accounted 
the  best  singer  in  the  gallery,  that  day.  But,  mum — 
there  was  no  getting  that  out  of  me.  "  Praise  to  the 
face  is  often  disgrace  "  says  I,  throwing  a  sly  squint 
at  Sally. 

At  last,  Mrs.  Jones  lighted  t'other  candle  ;  and  after 
charging  Sally  to  look  well  to  the  fire,  she  led  the  way 


156         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

to  bed,  and  the  Squire  gathered  up  his  shoes  and  stock- 
ings and  followed. 

Sally  and  I  were  left  sitting  a  good  yard  apart,  hon- 
est measure.  For  fear  of  getting  tongue-tied  again,  I 
set  right  in,  with  a  steady  stream  of  talk.  I  told  her 
all  the  particulars  about  the  weather  that  was  past, 
and  also  made  some  pretty  cute  guesses  at  what  it  was 
like  to  be  in  future.  At  first,  I  gave  a  hitch  up  with 
my  chair  at  every  full  stop.  Then  growing  saucy,  I 
repeated  it  at  every  comma,  and  semicolon ;  and  at 
last,  it  was  hitch,  hitch,  hitch,  and  I  planted  myself  fast 
by  the  side  of  her. 

"  I  swow,  Sally,  you  looked  so  plaguy  handsome  to 
day,  that  I  wanted  to  eat  you  up." — Pshaw,  get  along 
you, "  says  she.  My  hand  had  crept  along,  somehow, 
upon  its  fingers,  and  begun  to  scrape  acquaintance  with 
hers.  She  sent  it  home  again,  with  a  desperate  jerk. 
"  Try  it  agin  " — no  better  luck.  "  Why,  Miss  Jones 
you're  gettin'  upstropulous,  a  little  old  madish,  I  guess." 
"  Hands  off  is  fair  play,  Mr.  Beedle." 

It  is  a  good  sign  to  find  a  girl  sulkey.  I  knew 
where  the  shoe  pinched.  It  was  that  are  Patty  Bean 
business.  So  I  went  to  work  to  persuade  her  that  I 
had  never  had  any  notion  after  Patty,  and  to  prove  it  I 
fell  to  running  her  down  at  a  great  rate.  Sally  could 
not  help  chiming  in  with  me,  and  I  rather  guess  Miss 
Patty  suffered  a  few.  I,  now,  not  only  got  hold  of  her 
hand  without  opposition,  but  managed  to  slip  an  arm 
round  her  waist.  But  there  was  no  satisfying  me  ;  so 
I  must  go  to  poking  out  my  lips  after  a  buss.  I  guess 
I  rued  it.  She  fetched  me  a  slap  in  the  face  that  made 
me  see  stars,  and  my  ears  rung  like  a  brass  kettle  for 
a  quarter  of  an  hour.  I  was  forced  to  laugh  at  the 
joke,  tho'  out  of  the  wrong  side  of  my  mouth,  which 


COURTSHIP.  157 

gave  my  face  something  the  look  of  a  gridiron.  The 
battle  now  began  in  the  regular  way.  "  Ah,  Sally, 
give  me  a  kiss,  and  ha'  done  with  it,  now. — I  won't,  so 
there,  nor  tech  to. — I'll  take  it,  whether  or  no. — Do  it, 
if  you  dare." — And  at  it  we  went,  rough  and  tumble. 
An  odd  destruction  of  starch  now  commenced.  The 
bow  of  my  cravat  was  squat  up  in  half  a  shake.  At 
the  next  bout,  smash  went  shirt  collar,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  some  of  the  head  fastenings  gave  way,  and  down 
came  Sally's  hair  in  a  flood,  like  a  mill  dam  broke 
loose, — carrying  away  half  a  dozen  combs.  One  dig 
of  Sally's  elbow,  and  my  blooming  ruffles  wilted  down 
to  a  dish-cloth.  But  she  had  no  time  to  boast.  Soon 
her  neck  tackling  began  to  shiver.  It  parted  at  the 
throat,  and,  whorah,  came  a  whole  school  of  blue  and 
white  beads,  scampering  and  running  races  every  which 
way,  about  the  floor. 

By  the  Hokey  ;  if  Sally  Jones  is'nt  real  grit,  there's 
no  snakes.  She  fought  fair,  however,  I  must  own,  and 
neither  tried  to  bite  nor  scratch  ;  and  when  she  could 
fight  no  longer,  for  want  of  breath,  she  yielded  hand- 
somely. Her  arms  fell  down  by  her  sides,  her  head 
back  over  her  chair,  her  eyes  closed  and  there  lay  her 
little  plump  mouth,  all  in  the  air.  Lord  !  did  ye  ever 
see  a  hawk  pounce  upon  a  young  robin  1  Or  a  bum- 
blebee upon  a  clover-top  1 — I  say  nothing. 

Consarn  it,  how  a  buss  will  crack,  of  a  still  frosty 
night.  Mrs.  Jones  was  about  half  way  between  asleep 
and  awake.  "  There  goes  my  yeast  bottle,  says  she  to 
herself — burst  into  twenty  hundred  pieces,  and  my 
bread  is  all  dough  agin." 

The  upshot  of  the  matter  is,  I  fell  in  love  with  Sally 
Jones,  head  over  ears.     Every  Sunday  night,  rain  or 
14* 


158         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

shine,  finds  me  rapping  at  '  Squire  Jones'  door,  and 
twenty  times  have  I  been  within  a  hair's  breadth  of 
popping  the  question.  But  now  I  have  made  a  final  re- 
solve ;  and  if  I  live  till  next  Sunday  night,  and  I  don't 
get  choked  in  the  trial,  Sally  Jones  will  hear  thunder. 


VENETIAN  MOONLIGHT. 


Frederick  Mellen. 


THE  midnight  chime  had  tolled  from  Marco's  towers  ,- 
O'er  Adria's  wave  the  trembling  echo  swept ; 

The  gondolieri  paused  upon  their  oars, 

Mutt'ring  their  prayers  as  through  the  still  night  crept. 

Far  on  the  wave  the  knell  of  time  sped  on, 
Till  the  sound  died  upon  its  tranquil  breast : 

The  sea-boy  startled  as  the  peal  rolled  on ; 
Gazed  at  his  star,  and  turned  himself  to  rest. 

The  throbbing  heart,  that  late  had  said  farewell, 
Still  lingering  on  the  wave  that  bore  it  home, 

At  that  bright  hour  sigh'd  o'er  the  dying  swell, 
And  thought  on  years  of  absence  yet  to  come. 

'T  was  moonlight  on  Venetia's  sea, 
And  every  fragrant  bower  and  tree 

Smiled  in  the  golden  light ; 
The  thousand  eyes  that  clustered  there 
Ne'er  in  their  life  looked  half  so  fair 

As  on  that  happy  night. 

A  thousand  sparkling  lights  were  set 
On  every  dome  and  minaret ; 

While  through  the  marble  halls, 
The  gush  of  cooling  fountains  came, 
And  crystal  lamps  sent  far  their  flame 

Upon  the  high-arched  walls. 


VENETIAN    MOONLIGHT.  159 

But  sweeter  far  on  Adria's  sea, 
The  gondolier's  wild  minstrelsy 

In  accents  low  began  ; 
While  sounding  harp  and  martial  zel 
Their  music  joined,  until  the  swell 

Seemed  heaven's  broad  arch  to  span. 

Then  faintly  ceasing — one  by  one, 
That  plaintive  voice  sung  on  alone 

Its  wild,  heart-soothing  lay  ; 
And  then  again  that  moonlight  band 
Started,  as  if  by  magic  wand, 

In  one  bold  burst  away. 

The  joyous  laugh  came  on  the  breeze, 
And,  'mid  the  bright  o'erhanging  trees, 

The  mazy  dance  went  round  ; 
And  as  in  joyous  ring  they  flew, 
The  smiling  nymphs  the  wild  flowers  threw 

That  clustered  on  the  ground. 

Soft  as  a  summer  evening's  sigh, 
From  each  o'erhanging  balcony 

Low  fervent  whisperings  fell ; 
And  many  a  heart  upon  that  night 
On  fancy's  pinion  sped  its  flight, 

Where  holier  beings  dwell. 

Each  lovely  form  the  eye  might  see, 
The  dark-browed  maid  of  Italy 

With  love's  own  sparkling  eyes  ; 
The  fairy  Swiss — all,  all  that  night, 
Smiled  in  the  moonbeam's  silvery  light, 

Fair  as  their  native  skies. 

The  moon  went  down,  and  o'er  that  glowing  sea, 
With  darkness,  Silence  spread  abroad  her  wing, 

Nor  dash  of  oars,  nor  harp's  wild  minstrelsy 
Came  o'er  the  waters  in  that  mighty  ring. 

All  nature  slept — and,  save  the  far-off  moan 
Of  ocean  surges,  Silence  reigned  alone. 


BALLOONING. 

Bj     I.    McLellan,    Jr. 

THE  clear  sun  of  a  fine  September  day,  was  glittering 
on  roof  and  steeple,  and  the  cheerful  breeze  of  early 
autumn  breathing  its  harp-like  melody  over  woods  and 
waters.  A  vast  multitude  stood  around  me,  attentive- 
ly watching  the  expanding  folds  of  my  balloon,  as  it 
swayed  to  and  fro  in  the  unsteady  air.  As  I  prepared 
to  take  my  place  in  its  car,  I  noticed  an  involuntary 
shudder  run  through  the  assemblage,  and  anxious  glan- 
ces pass  from  face  to  face.  At  length,  the  process  of 
inflation  was  completed,  the  music  sounded,  the  gun 
was  discharged,  the  ropes  were  loosened,  and  the  beau- 
tiful machine  arose  in  the  air,  amid  the  resounding 
cheers  of  thousands.  As  it  ascended,  I  cast  a  hasty 
look  on  the  sea  of  upturned  heads,  and  thought  I  read 
one  general  expression  of  anxiety,  in  the  faces  of  the 
multitudinous  throng,  and  my  heart  warmed  with  the 
consciousness,  that  many  kind  wishes  and  secret  hopes 
were  wafted  with  me  on  my  heavenward  flight.  But 
very  soon,  mine  eye  ceased  to  distinguish  features  and 
forms,  and  the  collected  throng  became  blended  in  one 
confused  mass,  and  the  green  common  itself  had  dwin- 
dled into  a  mere  garden-plat,  and  the  magnificent  old 
Elm  in  its  centre  to  a  stunted  bush,  waving  on  the 
hill-side. 

Upward,  upward  !  my  flying  car  mounted  and  mount- 
ed, into  the  yet  untravcrsed  highways  of  the  air,  swift- 
er than  pinion-borne  bird,  or  canvas-borne  vessel,  yet 


BALLOONING.  161 

all  without  sound  of  revolving  wheel,  or  clatter  of  thun- 
dering hoof  or  straining  of  bellying  sail,  or  rustle  of 
flapping  wing.  I  felt  that  I  was  indeed  alone,  in  the 
upper  wastes  of  the  liquid  element,  a  solitary  voyager 
of  the  sky,  careering  onward  like  the  spectral  "  Ship 
of  the  Sea,"  with  no  murmur  of  bubbling  billow  under 
the  prow,  and  no  gush  of  whirling  ripple  beneath  the 
keel.  But  how  can  my  pen  describe  the  sublimity  of 
the  scene  above,  below  and  around !  At  one  moment, 
my  car  would  plunge  into  silvery  seas  of  vapor  and 
rolling  billows  of  mist,  through  which  the  dim-seen  sun 
did  but  feebly  glimmer,  like  the  struggling  flame  of  the 
torch  cast  in  the  dungeon's  gloom.  But  soon  that 
shadowy  veil  dissolved  away,  and  again  I  would  emerge 
into  the  blaze  of  the  golden  sun,  and  the  effulgence  of 
the  blue  heavens.  How  then  did  I  covet  the  painter's 
art,  to  be  able  to  imprint  on  the  eternal  canvas,  those 
gorgeous  clouds  piled  up  around  me,  like  hills  and 
mountains,  from  whose  sides  hoary  cataracts  seemed 
to  be  falling,  and  foamy  streams  leaping  into  the  val- 
lies,  that  rested  in  lovely  repose  at  their  base.  Nev- 
er did  the  dull  world  below  present  on  its  diversified 
bosom,  such  grand  or  such  enchanting  objects,  as  those 
beautiful  and  evanescent  creatures  of  the  air,  shining 
and  shifting  in  the  levelled  sunbeams  around.  At 
times,  my  whole  horizon  would  be  bounded  by  those 
mountainous  regions  of  cloud-land,  cliff  lifting  over 
cliff,  pinnacle  above  pinnacle,  Alps  above  Alps.  On 
their  sides  and  tops,  the  reflected  light  painted  all  the 
hues  of  the  rainbow,  in  commingled  azure  and  crim- 
son, purple  and  gold.  In  those  stupendous  masses  of 
vapor,  mine  eye,  with  little  aid  of  fancy,  could  trace 
out  resemblances  of  wild  and  desolate  forests,  of  som- 


1G2  THE    PORTLAND    SKETCH    BOOK. 

brc  fir  and  yew,  the  lordly  oak  and  the  melancholy 
pine,  whispering  in  the  bree/c.  Anon,  a  green,  hap- 
py valley,  would  smile  out  from  some  hollow  of  the 
hills,  and  the  white  church-spire  would  peep  from  the 
embosoming  orove,  and  the  rustic  parsonage,  the  rural 

O    O  '  1  tT1       ' 

farm-house,  and  the  village-inn,  with  its  swinging  sign, 
and  the  chesnut  waiving  its  twinkling  foliage  at  the 
door  would  appear.  Anon,  the  shifting  vapor  would 
assume  the  shape  of  an  old  baronial  fortress,  green 
with  the  mosses  of  centuries,  and  overspread  with  the 
flexile  creeper,  the  gadding  vine,  and  the  glossy  ivy, 
and  wearing  many  a  dull-weather  stain,  imprinted  by 
wintry  gale  and  autumnal  rain.  On  its  grey  towers 
would  seem  to  float  the  broad  standard,  around  which 
the  knights  and  vassals  had  mustered  so  often,  when 
the  armies  thundered  beneath  the  leagured  walls,  or 
its  brave  folds  were  displayed  in  distant  lands,  on  the 
tented  fields  of  war. 

Onward,  onward  !  I  looked  forth,  and  saw  that  I 
was  again  wafted  along  the  lower  currents  of  air,  arid 
could  easily  distinguish  the  sights  and  sounds  of  earth. 
I  passed  over  green  pastures,  where  the  brindled  cat- 
tle and  snowy  sheep  were  feeding,  and,  under  a  spread- 
ing oak,  that  towered  aloft  like  a  verdant  hill,  reclined 
a  young  girl,  watching  her  father's  flocks,  attended  by 
a  pet  larnb,  cropping  the  fair  flowers  at  her  feet.  As 
I  gaxcd,  I  thought  of  "  the  fair  Una  with  her  milk- 
white  lamb,"  and  of  all  the  happiness  of  the  shepherd's 
life,  who,  sitting  upon  the  grassy  hill-side  beneath  the 
sacred  locust,  and  piping  entrancing  melodies  in  praise 
of  his  love,  on  the  mellow  oaten  reed,  is  all  unmindful 
of  the  cankering  care  and  the  poisonous  hatred,  that 
embitter  human  life.  Great  was  the  surprise  that  agi- 


BALLOOMNG.  163 

tated  that  lonesome  spot,  as  mine  air-borne  pageant 
fluttered  over  it,  with  its  silken  fold  and  colored  stream- 
er. The  cattle  cast  upward  their  wondering  eyes,  and 
galloped  away  to  the  forests,  and  I  could  long  hear  the 
tinkling  bell  on  the  horn  of  the  bull  and  heifer,  sound- 
ing in  the  inner  sanctuary  of  the  wood,  where,  on  a 
twisted  root  or  a  moss-covered  stone,  by  the  brink  of 
the  gushing  brook,  reclined  that  grey-beard  recluse, 
Solitude,  and.  his  nun-like  sister,  Silence,  revolving 
their  lonely  meditations. 

Onward,  still  onward  !  Beneath  me  I  beheld  a  sol- 
emn spot,  where  the  linden,  the  ash,  the  sycamore,  the 
cypress,  the  cedar,  the  beech,  the  church-yard  yew 
and  hemlock,  were  clustered  together  in  one  mournful 
company.  I  knew  by  the  stone  altars,  by  the  sculptur- 
ed urn,  the  graceful  obelisk,  the  foam-white  pyramid, 
the  funereal  cenotaph,  the  marble  mausoleum,  which 
glimmered  amid  the  groves  and  bovvers,  that  I  looked 
upon  a  sanctuary,  consecrated  by  the  living  to  the  re- 
pose of  the  dead.  A  sweet  sabbath-like  calm  seemed 
to  hover  about  the  place,  and  even  the  very  birds  that 
were  flitting  from  branch  to  branch,  and  the  breeze 
that  was  sighing  its  hollow  dirge  along  the  wood-tops, 
appeared  to  know  that  the  spot  was  holy.  As  I  looked, 
I  beheld  a  slow  procession  winding  along  this  highway 
of  the  departed,  and  bearing  a  new  tenant  to  the  nar- 
row house.  Some  sweet  infant,  perhaps,  was  there 
cut  down  in  the  dewy  bloom  of  its  innocence, — some 
beautiful  bud  of  beauty  severed  from  its  stem,  and 
torn  away  from  its  blossoming  mates,  in  the  garden  of 
youth, — or,  haply,  some  silver-haired  sire,  gathered 
like  the  shock  of  com,  fully  ripe,  into  the  vast  granary 
of  death. 


164  THE    PORTLAND    SKETCH    BOOK. 

As  I  passed  from  this  interesting  spot,  I  was  attract- 
ed by  a  merry  train  of  riders,  whose  loud  and  cheerful 
voices  resounded  along  the  road,  seeming  to  mock  the 
sacred  silence  of  the  place  I  had  so  lately  left.  As  the 
gay  array  of  youth  and  beauty  dashed  away  from  my 
sight,  with  foamy  bridle  and  gory  spur,  I  could  not  but 
be  reminded  of  the  close  juxta-position  on  earth,  of  joy 
and  sorrow,  life  and  death. 

Onward,  onward  !  over  winding  streams,  that  glitter- 
ed like  twisting  serpents  on  the  green  surface  of  the 
earth,  over  the  broad  bay,  that  rested  in  smooth  and 
glassy  repose  in  the  arms  of  the  far-extending  shore, 
and  over  the  dashing  billows  of  the  ocean,  my  route 
continued.  Birds  of  the  briny  sea,  whose  strong  wings 
had  borne  them  safely  and  surely  from  the  frosty  at- 
mosphere that  sparkles  around  the  pole,  or  the  ice-cold 
waters  of  some  far-away  lagoon,  now  darted  around 
me  with  discordant  cry  and  affrighted  pinion.  In  those 
hovering  flocks  I  discerned  the  duck,  the  goose,  the 
coot,  the  loon,  the  curlew,  the  green-winged  teal,  the 
dusky  duck,  the  sooty  tern,  the  yellow-winged  gadwale, 
the  golden  eye,  and  the  gaudy  mallard,  proudly  vain  of 
that  lovely  plumage,  whose  intense  hues  rival  the  glory 
of  the  breaking  dawn,  the  autumnal  sunset,  or  the  in- 
termingled dyes  which  tinge  the  stripes  of  the  showery 
bow.  On  an  iron-bound  promontory,  whose  jutting 
crags  waved  an  eternal  strife  with  the  rolling  billows, 
I  saw  the  thick-scattered  cottages  of  wealth  and  taste, 
seeming  no  bigger  than  the  nest,  which  the  tropical 
bird  constructs  in  the  sands  of  the  desert,  while  around, 
on  the  tumbling  expanse  of  waters,  were  glancing  a 
thousand  receding  and  approaching  sails,  bearing  the 
riches  of  the  orient  or  the  Occident,  from  shore  to  shore. 


BALLOONING.  165 

Downward,  downward !  A  thrill  of  horror  shot 
through  my  veins,  as  I  felt  thai  the  rough  ocean  breeze 
had  shivered  my  silken  vessel  to  shreds  and  tatters,  and 
that  I  was  falling  with  the  speed  of  lightning,  through 
the  hollow  abyss  of  the  air,  into  the  sea.  The  jaws  of 
the  fretting  ocean,  gnashing  then1  white  teeth  in  an- 
ger, seemed  to  gape  open  to  devour  me,  and  the  black 
rocks  uplifted  their  jagged  spears,  to  impale  my  devo- 
ted body  !  But  my  time  had  not  yet  come.  A  gen- 
tle tap  on  the  shoulder  aroused  me  from  the  profound 
reverie  in  which  I  had  been  plunged,  and  I  was  very 
glad  to  recognize,  in  the  visifor  who  had  broken  the 
spell,  my  good  friend  Durant,  who  called  to  invite  me 
to  attend  his  grand  ascension,  the  following  day. 


15 


ODE, 


ON  OCCASION  OP  JUDGE  STORY'S   Kl'I.OGY  OX  CHIEF   JUSTICE  MARSHALL. 
AT  THE  ODEON 


By  OrenTi 

AGAIN  —  the  voice  of  God  ' 

How  breaks  it  round  ! 
O'er  consecrated  sod, 

With  locks  unbound, 
Grief  in  her  marble  brow  appears 
And  bows  amid  her  veil  —  in  tears  ' 

That  mandate   from  on  high  — 

The  clarion  call, 
That  rung  through  earth  and   sky 

His  rayless   fall, 

In  accents,  "  thou  shall  die,"  again 
Proclaims  man's  dream  of  years  —  how  vain  ! 

We  veil  not  in  its  grave 

Ambition's  brow  — 
It  is  not  o'er  the  brave 

We  gather  now  ! 

But  one  who  rcach'd   man's  loftier  fate, 
Good  without  fault  —  and  nobly  great. 

A  sceptre  was  his  own, 

Drawn  from  the  sky  — 
He  fill'd  a  holier  throne 

Than  royalty  : 

He  sat  with  deathless  Justice  crown'd, 
While  Truth,  like  sunlight,  flash'd  around  ! 

Ilis  life  to  all  Ihe  earth 

Proud  record  bore, 
Man  yet  might  spring  to  birth, 
With  angel  power  ! 


THE    BOY'S    MOUNTAIN    SONG.  167 

His  death,  that  as  the  "  grass,"  to-day 
Robes  him  in  glory — and  decay  ! 

Oh  !  well,  with  spirit  bow'd, 

Above  his  bier 
May  a  broad  empire  crowd, 

With  prayer  and  tear ! 
— His  be  its  requiem — deep  and  far — 
A  nation's  heart  his  sepulchre  ! 


THE  BOY'S  MOUNTAIN  SONG. 


FROM    THE    GERMAN. 


By     I.    McLcllan,    Jr. 


I  AM  the  mountain  boy  ! 
Forth  o'er  an  hundred  halls  I  gaze. 
Here  morn  his  earliest  light  displays, 
Here  linger  his  declining  rays, — 

I  am  the  mountain  boy  ! 

Here  is  the  mountain-source, 
Of  the  cold  water-course — 
And  at  sultry  noon  I  dip, 
In  its  wave  my  glowing  lip. 
I  am  the  mountain  boy  ! 

When  the  awful  lightnings  glare, 
Flashes  on  the  midnight  air, 
On  the  rocking  cliff  1  kneel, 
Answering  back  each  thunder-peal. 
I  am  the  mountain  boy ! 

When  the  quickly-pealing  bell, 
Calls  to  arms  in  every  dell, 
In  the  mustered  ranks  I  stand, 
Swinging  wide  my  mountain-brand 
And  sing  my  mountain-song  ! 


THE  UNCHANGEABLE  JEW. 

By  Jolin  Neal. 


A  GREAT  multitude  were  gathered  together :  on  the 
right  a  huge  fortress  thundering  to  the  sky — on  the  left 
a  scaffold — a  white  fog — the  open  sea — and  a  mighty 
ship  tumbling  to  the  swell.  The  flat  roofs  and  gor- 
geous balconies  were  covered  with  scarlet  cloth,  and 
thronged  with  women  of  all  ages — their  lips  writhing 
and  their  eyes  flashing.  Underneath  were  a  mute 
soldiery,  with  banners  that  moved  not,  and  spears  that 
glimmered  not — a  vast,  rich  and  motionless  pageant. 
Not  a  leaf  stirred — not  a  finger  was  lifted — all  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  something  afar  off.  The  Grave  alone 
had  a  voice,  and  the  footstep  of  approaching  Death 
grew  audible,  with  the  everlasting  beat  of  the  Ocean. 
The  stagnant  atmosphere  burned  with  a  lustreless,  un- 
changeable and  smouldering  warmth.  As  the  impa- 
tient and  sluggish  breathing  of  the  Destroyer  drew  near, 
with  a  sound  as  of  Earthquake  and  Pestilence  laboring 
afar  off,  there  appeared  upon  the  outermost  verge  of 
the  scaffold,  near  the  fortress,  a  man  of  a  simple  and 
majestic  presence,  wearing  no  symbol  of  power,  no 
badge  of  authority,  before  whom  the  multitude  gave 
way  with  headlong  precipitation,  as  though  but  to  touch 
the  hem  of  his  garment  were  death  itself,  or  something 
yet  worse  than  death.. 


THE    UNCHANGEABLE    JEW.  169 

After  communicating  with  those  about  him  in  a  low 
whisper,  too  low  to  be  understood  by  others  almost 
within  his  reach,  one  of  the  soldiers  lifted  a  spear,  at 
the  point  of  which  fluttered  a  blood-red  banner,  tufted  and 
fringed  with  snow-white  feathers,  and  pointed  in  silence 
toward  a  large  opening,  which  appeared  to  command  a 
view  of  the  whole  interior.  The  stranger  drew  near, 
and  grasping  one  of  the  bars  with  a  powerful  hand, 
lifted  himself  up,  and  after  looking  awhile,  turned  away 
with  a  sick  impatient  shudder,  and  wiped  his  eyes ; 
and  then  lifting  himself  up  again,  he  made  a  signal  to 
somebody  within,  and  straightway  a  large  tent-like 
awning  was  quietly  withdrawn,  so  as  to  reveal  the  in- 
terior of  a  court-yard,  with  cells  opening  into  it — 
in  the  nearest  of  which  sat  a  princely-looking  middle- 
aged  man,  half-buried  and  apparently  half  asleep 
or  lost  in  thought,  in  a  large,  heavy,  old-fashioned 
chair,  with  a  curiously  carved  table  before  him,  on 
which  there  lay,  side  by  side  with  writing  materials,  a 
lamp  and  a  letter  evidently  unfinished,  two  or  three 
illuminated  manuscripts,  a  dagger  and  a  map  ;  a  mas- 
sive goblet  richly  chased,  the  rough  gold  tinged  and 
sweltering  with  the  hot  blood  of  the  southern  grape,  a 
variety  of  strange  mathematical  instruments — a  copy 
of  Zoroaster — and  a  Hebrew  Bible,  with  clasps  of  the 
costliest  workmanship,  and  a  cover  of  black  velvet  frost- 
ed with  seed  pearls — a  crushed  and  trampled  coronet — 
and  a  lighted  pipe,  ornamented  with  precious  stones, 
the  shaft  a  twisted  serpent  and  the  bowl  a  burning  car- 
buncle— a  live  coal — from  the  core  of  which,  as  out  of 
the  midst  of  a  perpetual,  unextinguishable  fire,  issued 
a  delicate  perfume,  filling  the  whole  neighborhood,  as 
with  the  smoke  of  a  censer,-  and  leaving  the  eye  to 
15* 


170         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

make  out — by  little  and  little — through  the  fragrant  va- 
por, first  a  pair  of  embroidered  Persian  slippers,  then  a 
magnificent  robe,  flowered  all  over  as  with  the  sunshine 
of  the  sea,  and  weltering  in  the  changeable  light  of  the 
open  window,  then  a  prodigious  quantity  of  lustrous 
black  hair  flowing  down  over  the  shoulders,  from  under- 
neath a  crimson  velvet  cap  with  a  diamond  buckle  and 
clasp,  and  a  tassel  of  spun  gold,  strung  with  sapphire. 
ruby,  amethyst  and  pearl — and  a  pomp  of  black  feathers 
overshadowing  an  ample  forehead  of  surpassing  power, 
and  eyes  of  untroubled  splendor  ;  and  then,  after  a  long 
while,  a  heap  of  black  shadow  lying  coiled  up  under- 
neath the  table,  from  the  midst  of  which  an  occasional 
flash,  as  of  a  serpent's,  tongue,  or  an  angry  sparkle — as 
of  a  serpent's  eye,  would  appear — and  at  last  the  whole 
proportions  of  a  superb-looking  personage,  who  had  been 
trying,  hour  after  hour,  with  a  compressed  lip  and  a 
thoughtful  determined  eye — to  snap  what  appeared  to 
be  a  handful  of  seed  pearl,  one  by  one,  through  the 
grated  window  before  him,  without  touching  the  bars — 
hour  after  hour — and  always  in  vain  !  The  passage 
way  was  too  narrow — the  bars  too  near  together. 

Behold  !  murmured  he  at  last,  while  the  shadow  of 
another — and  yet  another  stranger,  shot  along  the  light- 
ed floor,  as  he  stole  about  the  room  a-tiptoe,  and  gather- 
ing up  the  pearls,  if  pearls  they  were,  that  lay  in  heaps 
underneath  the  window,  and  flinging  aside  the  magnifi- 
cent robe  he  wore,  prepared  himself  anew  and  with 
more  determination  than  ever,  for  the  work  he  had 
evidently  set  his  heart  upon,  if  not  his  life,  by  measur- 
ing the  elevation  with  a  steadier  eye,  and  poising  every 
pearl  with  a  more  delicate  touch,  before  he  projected  it 
toward  the  window.  Behold  !  how  the  Ancient  of  Days 
delighteth  in  counteracting  the  purposes  of  Man  1 


THE    UNCHANGEABLE    JEW.  171 

The  other  started  back  and  threw  up  his  arms  with 
a  look  of  horror  and  amazement,  and  all  who  were 
about  him  began  whispering  together  and  shaking  their 
heads. 

At  this  moment  the  slow  jarring  vibration  of  a  great 
bell  was  heard  from  the  topmost  tower — the  cannon  of 
the  fortress  thundered  forth,  and  were  answered,  peal 
•after  peal,  from  the  lighted  mountains — a  volume  of 
white  smoke  rolled  heavily  toward  the  earth  and  cov- 
ered the  people — the  sea-fog  trembled — parted — and 
slowly  drifted  away  in  patches  and  fragments,  through 
which  the  blue  sky  appeared,  and  the  hot  sunshine' flash- 
ed with  an  arrowy  brightness,  while  the  mighty  ship 
swung  round  with  her  broadside  to  the  shore,  and  light- 
ed matches  were  seen  moving  about  hither  and  thither, 
like  wandering  meteors,  through  the  damp  hazy  atmos- 
phere ;  and  instantly  there  went  up  a  slow  half-smoth- 
ered wail  from  the  multitude,  with  a  weight  and  volume 
like  the  unutterable  and  growing  earnestness  of  the 
Great  Deep,  when  it  begins  to  heave  with  a  pre-appoint- 
ed  and  irresistible  change  ;  and  all  eyes  were  upturned, 
and  all  arms  outstretched  with  a  troubled  expression 
toward  the  stranger,  who  walked  forward  a  few  steps 
to  the  verge  .of  the  scaffold — and  looking  about  him, 
on  every  side,  called  out  with  a  loud  voice, — Of  such 
are  the  Gods  of  the  Unconverted  !  and  of  such  their 
followers ! 

The  answering  roar  of  the  multitude  reached  the 
prisoner,  who  lifting  his  head  and  listening  for  a  mo- 
ment with  a  placid  smile,  asked  what  more  they  would 
have  1 — and  whether  they  were  not  yet  satisfied  I — and 
then  straightway  began  balancing  another  of  the  glit- 
tering seeds  and  eyeing  the  window — 


172         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

Most  pitiable  !  cried  the  other,  covering  his  face 
with  his  hands,  moving  afar  off,  and  appearing  to  be 
entirely  overcome  by  what  he  saw. 

And  why  pitiable,  I  pray  thec !  shouted  the  former, 
with  a  voice  like  a  trumpet,  lifting  his  calm  forehead 
to  the  sky  and  gathering  his  magnificent  robe  about 
him  as  he  spoke. 

Art  thou  of  a  truth  Adonijah  the  Jew — the  uncon- 
verted Jew  1 

Of  a  truth  am  I — the  unconverted,  the  unconvertable 
Jew ;  and  thou !  art  thou  not  he  that  was  my  brother 
according  to  the  flesh — even  Zorobabel,  the  converted 
Jew  and  the  preacher  of  a  new  faith  '\ 

Yea  ;  of  a  new  faith  to  such  as  thou  ;  but  a  faith 
older  than  the  Hebrew  prophets  to  them  that  believe, 
Adonijah. 

But  why  pitiable  I  pray  thee  1 

How  are  the  mighty  fallen  !  For  three  whole  months 
have  I  journied  afoot  and  alone,  by  night  and  by  day, 
through  the  deep  of  the  wilderness,  and  along  by  the 
sea-shore — afoot  and  alone,  my  brother  ! — after  hear- 
ing of  thy  great  overthrow — the  wreck  of  thy  vast  pos- 
sessions about  me  whithersoever  I  went — thy  magnifi- 
cent household  scattered,  thy  princes  banished  from 
their  high  places,  'and  wandering  over  all  the  earth  and 
hiding  themselves  in  the  holes  of  the  rocks — with  no 
city  of  refuge  in  their  path — even  thy  youngest  and 
fairest  a  bondwoman,  toiling  for  that  which  sustaineth 
not ;  arid  thy  own  fast-approaching  death,  a  theme  with 
every  people  and  kindred  and  tongue — -and  not  a  theme 
of  sorrow  !  And  all  this,  O  my  brother  and  my  prince  * 
only  that  I  might  be  near  thee  in  thy  unutterable  be- 
reavement and  humiliation,  only  that  I  might  look  upoa 


THE    UNCHANGEABLE    JEW.  173 

thee  once  more  alive,  and  see  thee  unchangeable  as 
ever,  though  stripped  of  power  and  trampled  under  the 
hoofs  of  the  multitude — only  that  I  might  reason  with 
thee,  face  to  face,  before  a  great  people,  who,  after 
watching  and  worshipping  thee  for  many  years,  have 
come  up  together  as  with  one  heart,  to  see  thee — thee! 
their  idol  and  their  benefactor — perish  upon  a  scaffold, 
as  only  the  fool  or  the  scoffer  perisheth  ! — to  cry  out 
upon  thee  as  the  unconquerable  Jew,  that  having  once 
abjured  the  faith  of  his  fathers  and  gone  back  to  it  anew, 
cannot  be  reached  but  by  the  law,  nor  purified  but 
with  fire  ! 

Say  on. 

Alas,  my  brother  !  Alas  that  it  should  fall  upon  me  to 
afflict  thy  proud  spirit  with  reproaches  at  a  time  like 
this  !  But  there  is  no  other  hope.  Awake,  therefore  I 
awake  !  and  gird  up  thy  loins  like  a  man.  I  will  de- 
mand of  thee,  saith  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  and  thou  shalt 
answer  me,  even  as  my  servant  Job  answered  me  of 
yore.  Awake,  therefore,  and  stand  up,  that  I  may 
reason  with  thee  for  the  last  time  touching  the  faith  of 
our  mighty  fathers,  the  consolations  of  philosophy,  and 
the  splendor  and  power  of  earthly  Wisdom — of  Death 
and  Judgment — while  thou  art  on  thy  way  to  the  grave 
in  the  fulness  of  thy  strength  and  majesty ;  and  not 
with  the  clangor  of  trumpets,  the  neigh  of  steeds,  the 
flow  of  drapery,  and  the  uproar  of  battle  ! — No  ! — not 
as  the  High  Priest,  or  the  champion  of  a  lofty  and  vene- 
rable faith,  standing  up  like  a  pillar  of  fire  in  a  cloudy 
sky,  and  pointing  to  Jerusalem  as  to  the  great  gathering 
place  of  buried  nations,  about  to  reappear,  with  all  eyes 
fixed  upon  thee  and  all  hearts  heaving  with  exultation  ! 
To  thy  grave,  my  brother !  and  not  as  a  martyr !  but 


174         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

as  a  wretch  abandoned  of  all  the  earth — a  twofold 
apostate  ! — a  rebel  and  a  traitor  !  Hark  !  nearest  thou 
not  a  faint  stirring  afar  off,  along  the  shore  of  that  mul- 
titude— a  living  wilderness  of  threatening  eves  and 
parched  lips — and  ah  !  another  moan  from  that  huge, 
heavy,  disheartening  bell,  which  never  stops  till  the 
sacrifice  of  a  fiery  death  is  over,  and  the  object  of  its 
boding  prophecy  gone  to  the  world  of  spirits. 

But  the  prisoner  heeded  not  his  adjuration — he  never 
lifted  his  eyes,  and  the  same  quiet  smile  rested  forever 
upon  his  countenance ;  and  he  still  gathered  up  the 
pearls  and  continued  aiming  them  at  the  window. 

Awake,  Adonijah  !  awake,  I  say  !  Thy  pearls  are 
counted  to  thce.  Thy  pulses  are  about  to  stand  still 
forever — thy  proud  heart  to  stop  forever  !  A  moment, 
and  the  headsman  will  be  here — already  do  I  see  him 
afar  off,  stealing  with  a  noiseless  movement  along  the 
skirts  of  the  affrighted  people,  like  smouldering  fire 
through  the  blackness  of  a  thunder-cloud.  Awake, 
thou  MAN  of  sorrow  and  acquainted  with  grief,  awake 
that  I  may  pray  with  thee  ! 

With  me  ! 

Yea,  my  brother — even  with  thee. 

And  wherefore  shouldst  thou  pray  with  me )  and 
wherefore  should  I  pray  I 

Wherefore  !  Have  I  not  heard  thee,  purified  by  that 
old  peculiar  faith,  charge  even  thy  Creator,  the  Ancient 
of  Days,  the  Lord  God  of  Heaven  and  Earth,  Jehovah  ! 
with  diverting  thy  pearls  from  their  appointed  path  ! 

True,  and  therefore  why  should  I  pray  1  Of  what 
avail  these  prayers  with  the  unchangeable  God  1  Can 
aught  that  we  do,  or  fail  to  do,  disturb  the  everlasting 
tranquillity  of  our  Creator — change  his  purpose — or 


THE    UNCHANGEABLE    JEW.  175 

in  any  way  move  to  pleasure  or  displeasure  the  Lord 
God  of  Heaven  and  Earth  1  With  him  before  whom 
all  things  are  alike,  with  whom  there  is  neither  great 
nor  small — what  he  hath  determined  to  do,  that  will 
he  not  do  1  whether  we  importune  him  or  not  with 
prayer  I  Go  to,  my  poor  brother  !  go  to  !  will  not  the 
Judge  of  all  the  Earth  do  right  1  and  if  he  will  not — 
how  are  we  to  help  ourselves '1 

Unhappy  man  !  Though  he  were  unchangeable  ; 
and  though  supplications  were  of  no  avail,  why  should 
the  children  of  men,  the  creatures  of  his  bounty  with- 
hold their  thanksgiving  ? 

That  would  I  never  withhold,  for  that  I  could  offer 
up  any  where — at  all  times  and  under  all  circumstan- 
ces,, without  dishonoring  him,  our  CREATOR  and  our 
Father,  or  his  image,  and  without  contradicting  our 
ancient  faith.  But  why  wrestle  in  prayer  with  him, 
for  that  which,  if  it  be  proper  for  us,  we  shall  be  sure  to 
have,  as  we  have  the  dew  and  the  sunshine,  the  seed- 
time and  the  harvest. — The  very  hairs  of  our  head,  are 
they  not  numbered  '\  Are  not  five  sparrows  sold  for 
two  farthings,  and  not  one  of  them  is  forgotten  before 
God! 

Yea  my  brother !  But  what  saith  the  same  scrip- 
ture 1  Ye  are  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows. 

True — true — I  had  forgotten  a  part  of  my  lesson. 

Believest  thou,  O  my  brother,  canst  thou  believe 
then,  that  in  His  eyes,  all  the  cherubim  and  seraphim 
are  equal  and  alike  1  that  He  is,  of  a  truth,  no  respecter 
of  persons  among  the  Hierarchy  of  heaven  1 

But  wherefore  pray  to  Him  that  toroweth  all  our 
wants,  before  they  are  uttered  or  feft?  to  Him  that 
feedeth  the  young  raven — laying  his  hand  reverential- 


176         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

ly  upon  the  Great  Book  before  him,  and  lifting  his  fore- 
head to  the  sky,  as  if  he  could  see  through  it. 

Wherefore  ?  Because  we  have  been  urged  to  pray — 
entreated  to  pray — commanded  to  pray.  Because 
every  thing  desirable  hath  been  promised  to  prayer. 

Not  in  the  Hebrew  scriptures,  however  it  may  be 
with  the  Greek.  To  thanksgiving  and  submission,  there 
may  be  vouchsafed  a  continual  to  favor ;  but  to  impor- 
tunity, as  urged  upon  you  in  your  scripture,  my  poor 
brother,  nothing. 

Lo  !  the  headsman  touches  the  foot  of  the  scaffold ! 
Wilt  thou  not  pray  with  me,  oh  Adonijah !  my  brother 
and  my  prince ! 

No  !  my  brother  that  was — no  !  The  Lion  of  Judah 
hath  not  yet  learned  to  lick  the  uplifted  hand  of  mor- 
tal man.  Get  thee  behind  me  Zorobabel,  my  brother  ! 
Go  thy  way,  and  leave  me  to  my  trust  in  the  God  of 
our  fathers.  Why  should  I  pray  with  thce — with  thee  ! 
an  apostate  from  the  sepulchre  of  kings  and  prophets — 
I  that  never  have  prayed  but  with  the  princes,  and  the 
Judges  and  the  High-Priest  of  our  people  1  Get  thee 
gone,  my  brother !  It  is  not  for  such  as  I  to  tempt  the 
Lord  of  Hosts,  or  to  persuade  the  Ancient  of  Days. 
Do  not  thou  tempt  me. 

Stay,  brother — stay !  Did  not  Jacob  wrestle  in 
prayer  with  the  angel  of  the  Lord,  all  the  night  long  1 

With  the  angel  of  the  Lord  1 — yea — But  never  with 
the  Lord  himself,  as  thou  wouldst  have  me.  And  say- 
ing this,  he  gathered  up  his  robe  and  shook  it,  and 
turned  away  from  his  brother  sorrowing. 

Man !  thou  Eul  beside  thyself — much  learning  hath 
made  thee  mad— cried  his  brother,  reaching  forth  his 
arms  to  Adonijah.  The  whole  Hebrew  scriptures  are 


THE    UNCHANGEABLE    JEW.  177 

against  thee^ — what  are  they  all  but  a  Book  of  prayer 
and  supplication  1  Prophets  and  Bards  and  Kings  and 
Judges,  yea,  even  the  High  Priesthood,  are  against 
thee  !  Why  shouldst  thou  pray,  thou  unconquerable 
Hebrew  1 — why  ! — that  thy  proud  heart  may  be  made 
human — that  thy  understanding  may  be  enlightened — 
that  thou  mayst  be  made  to  know  and  believe  that  there 
is  another  and  a  better  Scripture.  Pray  to  thy  Father, 
which  is  in  Heaven,  as  thou  wouldst  that  thy  children 
should  pray  to  thee,  even  for  that  which  thou  hast  al- 
ready determined  to  grant  them — oh,  pray  to  Him  !  that 
He  may  see  the  disposition  of  thy  heart,  as  thou  wouldst 
see  theirs.  What  though  thou  art  mindful  of  their 
wants,  and  well  acquainted  with  their  hearts  and  pur- 
poses, and  always  ready  to  gratify  them,  is  it  not  a 
condition  with  thee — even  with  thee,  Adonijah,  that 
they  should  acknowledge  their  dependence  upon  thee, 
and  their  utter  helplessness  of  themselves  *?  And  why 
should  it  not  be  so  with  our  Heavenly  Father  1  with 
Him  whose  angels  are  about  thee  and  above  thee,  a 
perpetual  atmosphere  of  warmth  and  light.  Ha !  the 
multitude  are  breaking  up  ! — they' are  coming  this  way  ! 
I  hear  the  tramp  of  horsemen — a  moment  more  and 
we  are  apart  forever.  A  flash ! — The  Philistines  are 
upon  thee,  O  my  brother  ! 

That  brother  looked  up  and  smiled. 

Wilt  thou  not  pray  with  me  1 

No — once  for  all — no !  Never  with  a  converted 
Jew — never  with  a  Christian  ! — never  with  thee,  thou 
but  half  a  Christian  ! 

Farewell  then  ! — farewell  forever.^B 

Another  flash  !  attended  with  a  loiWRirst  of  thunder 
among  the  hills. 
16 


178        THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

Nay,  let  us  part  in  peace,  my  brother,  although  I 
cannot  pray  with  thee,  I  can  for  thce  !  The  God  of 
our  Fathers!  of  Abraham,  Isaac  and  Jacob,  have  thee 
in  his  holy  keeping  ! 

The  stranger  threw  up  his  arms  in  a  transport  of  joy, 
The  unconverted,  the  unconvertable  Jew  had  prayed 
for  him  with  the  temper  of  a  Christian ;  and  straight- 
way he  fell  upon  his  knees  and  called  upon  the  God  of 
the  Hebrews,  in  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ  of  Nazareth, 
to  spare  the  JCAV  and  change  his  heart. 

The  huge  gate  swung  open.  The  drawbridge  fell — 
a  fierce  angry  light  broke  forth  suddenly  from  under- 
neath the  scaffold — a  black  banner  floated  all  at  once 
from  the  battlements  over  the  passage-way — a  troop 
of  horsemen,  with  flashing  spears  and  iron  helmets, 
wheeled  slowly  into  the  court-yard,  and  drew  up  in  dead 
silence  along  the  outer  barrier.  The  headsman  ap- 
peared. A  signal  was  made  from  a  far  window,  and 
lo !  the  coronet  and  the  robe,  wilh  all  the  glittering  in- 
signia of  departed  power  and  extinguished  glory,  worn 
torn  away,  and  trampled  under  foot  by  the  hoofs  of  the 
multitude.  A  white  smoke  rolled  forth  from  below, 
and  when  it  cleared  away,  the  Jew  appeared  standing 
bareheaded  between  two  gigantic  mutes,  one  of  whom 
bore  a  naked  cimetar,  while  the  oilier  stood  watching 
his  countenance.  It  continued  unaltered — unaltera- 
ble— nor  would  he  vouchsafe  the  slightest  token  of 
submission  or  terror,  though  the  Humes  roared,  and  the 
white  smoke  rolled  thitherward  like  the  white  sea-fog 
before  a  coming  storm;  but  haughtily,  steadfastly,  and 
with  a  irajedl^^»ldncss  which  awed  the  very  soldiery 
more  than  al^rro  pomp  they  were  accustomed  to,  ho 
pointed  to  the  multitude,  lowering  about  him  with  a 


THE    UNCHANGEABLE    JEW.  179 

tempestuous  blackness — to  the  pyre  with  its  covering 
of  blood-red  cloth  dripping  \vith  recent  moisture — to 
the  flames  roaring  far  below  among  the  dry  faggots, 
and  signified  a  wish  to  proceed. 

Once  mare  shouted  a  voice  from  the  barrier — My 
brother !  oh  my  brother  !  wilt  thou  not  be  prevailed 
upon,  if  not  for  thine  own  sake,  for  the  sake  of  thy  be- 
loved wife  and  thy  youngest  born — about  to  perish  with 
thee — even  with  thce,  my  brother,  in  their  marvellous 
beauty  and  most  abundant  strength. 

Away  ! — and  let  me  die  in  peace  ! 

Another  step  thou  unconquerable  man !  But  an- 
other step — thou  apostate  Jew  ! — and  thou  art  in  the 
world  of  spirits  !  Wilt  thou  not  say !  canst  thou  not, 
with  lowliness  and  fervor,  Our  Father  which  art  in 
Heaven  !  thy  will  and  not  mine  be  done ! 

Yea,  brother — if  that  will  comfort  thee  in  thy  deso- 
lation. Yea !  Yea !  with  all  the  hoarded  and  concen- 
trated fervor  of  a  long  life  accustomed  to  no  other  lan- 
guage, even  while  I  took  upon  me  the  outer  garb  of  a 
Christian — Yea! — and  saying  this,  he  fell  upon  his 
knees,  and  cried  out  with  a  loud  voice,  while  a  tri- 
umphant brightness  overspread  his  uplifted  countenance 
with  a  visible  exaltation,  Our  Father  and  our  Judge  ! 
I  do  not  pray  to  thee  as  the  God  of  the  Christians 
did,  that  this  cup  may  be  spared  to  me  ;  for  I  have  put 
my  whole  hope  and  trust  in  thee,  and  am  satisfied  with 
whatsoever  I  may  receive  at  thy  hands !  But  I  would 
bless  thee,  I  would  praise  thce,  I  would  magnify  thy 
great  name,  oh  God  of  my  Fathers,  for  all  that  I  have 
enjoyed  or  suffered,  for  all  that  I  h^gttad  or  wanted 
in  this  life;  yea,  for  all  the  alllirtions^fhd  sorrows  and 
terrors  that  have  beset  my  path,  and  that  of  my  beloved 


180         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

wife  and  my  dear  children — children  of  the  tribe  of 
Judah  and  of  the  house  of  Jacob  ! — Yea,  for  the  over- 
throw of  all  my  proud  hopes  and  prouder  wishes,  when 
I  forsook  thee  and  almost  abjured  the  faith  of  my  Fa- 
thers for  dominion  sake.  Forgive  my  apostate  brother, 
I  beseech  thee,  O  Lord !  as  thou  hast  forgiven  me  : 
and  bless  the  heritage  of  thy  people,  and  encourage 
them  as  the  followers  of  the  new  faith  are  encouraged 
by  their  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  to  forgive  their  enemies, 
even  though  their  enemies  take  the  shape  of  a  beloved 
friend  or  brother — to  betray  them — giving  up  their 
birth-right,  like  Esau  for  a  mess  of  pottage. 

A  great  commotion  appeared  on  the  house-tops,  ex- 
tending itself  slowly  far  and  wide. 

Nevertheless,  continued  the  Jew — nevertheless  !  oh 
Father  and  Judge,  God  of  Abraham,  Isaac  and  Jacob ! 
thy  will  and  not  mine  be  done  ! 

The  multitude  began  to  surge  this  way  and  that, 
with  exceeding  violence.  A  cry  of  indignation  arose 
from  every  side.  A  tumult  followed — a  general  rush — 
the  house-tops  were  suddenly  deserted — the  sea  shore — 
and  some  began  shouting,  Away  with  him !  away  with 
him  !  and  others,  Let  the  blaspheming  Jew  perish  with- 
out hope  !  and  others,  Crucify  him  !  crucify  him  ! 

But  in  the  midst  of  the  uproar,  one  clear  solitary  cry 
was  heard  afar  off,  repeating  a  prayer  to  the  God  of 
the  Hebrews — another  cloud  of  white  smoke  rolled 
over  the  battlements — the  flames  appeared  half  way  up 
the  sky — a  trumpet  sounded  underneath  the  very  scaf- 
fold— the  ancient  war-cry  of  the  Jews,  To  your  tents, 
O  Israel  !  rung  fur  and  wide  along  the  outer  barrier — 

O  o 

up  sprang  a  nRRRude  of  small  white  banners,  like  af- 
frighted birds,  from  the  midst  of  the  people — and  the 


THE    UNCHANGEABLE    JEW.  181 

next  moment,  before  they  had  recovered  from  their  un- 
speakable consternation,  the  heavy  horsemen  charged 
upon  them  in  a  body,  the  great  ship  swung  round  with 
all  her  voices  thundering  together,  and  swept  their  path- 
way as  with  a  whirlwind  of  fire,  while  they  hurried 
hither  and  thither,  crying  To  arms  !  to  arms !  The 
Jews !  the  Jews !  and  pointing  toward  the  bridge,  only 
to  find  the  bridge  itself  destroyed  and  the  opposite 
shore  in  possession  of  that  other  converted  Jew — the 
stranger ! — all  in  glittering  steel  arrayed,  and  carrying 
a  banner  on  which  the  Lion  of  Judah  was  ramping  in  a 
field  of  carnage ! 


And  when  the  Jew  Adonijah,  now  more  a  Jew  than 
ever,  and  more  fully  satisfied  than  ever,  with  the  sub- 
lime, and  awful,  and  unchangeable  faith  of  his  old 
Hebrew  Fathers,  came  fully  to  himself,  and  the  tumult 
was  all  over,  he  found  three  out  of  his  four  children 
of  the  house  of  Jacob,  standing  near  him  in  their  robes 
of  state — another,  and  a  stranger,  harnessed  for  the 
war,  his  black  eyes  yet  gleaming  with  the  half-extin- 
guished fire  of  battle,  standing  at  the  door  of  the  cham- 
ber. 

And  why  wouldst  thou  not  pray  for  us,  father  1  said 
one  of  the  two  that  were  standing  by  the  bed-side. 

Because  ye  were  sick  unto  death ;  and  I  held  it  sin- 
ful to  ask  for  that  which  had  been  refused  to  King 
David  himself — I,  that  had  forsaken  the  Lord  God  of 
my  fathers — How  could  I  hope  that  he  would  not  for- 
sake me ! 

But  the  Christian  prayed  for  us,  Father,  and  the 
prayers  of  the  Christian  were  heard ! 


ICSi  THE    PORTLAND    SKETCH    BOOK. 

With  what  face  could  they,  being  Christians,  pray 
for  the  children  of  men  that  put  their  Savior  to  death  1 
How  could  they,  being  Christians,  forget  their  scripture, 
which  saith — suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me,  and 
forbid  them  not :  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven! 

And  as  he  spoke,  the  great  doors  were  thrown  open, 
and  the  armed  man  flung  down  his  helmet,  and  walked 
forward  with  a  solemn  and  haughty  step  leading  a 
beautiful  woman  captive,  and  a  young  child. 

A  shriek  ! — a  tumult ! — and  straightway  all  were 
kneeling  together !  And  not  one  of  that  family  of  Ja- 
cob— that  remnant  of  the  tribe  of  Judah — not  one  was 
missing.  They  were  determined  to  live  and  die  in  their 
old  august  unchangeable  faith,  even  as  all  their  pro- 
genitors had  lived  and  died — enduring  all  things — suf- 
fering all  things — trials  and  sorrows  and  temptations — 
age  after  age — and  never  betraying  their  faith,  never ! 

But  the  unconquerable  Jew  acknowledged  to  him- 
self, and  to  his  brother,  even  there,  as  they  fell  upon  his 
neck  and  wept,  the  possibility  of  prayer  being  heard, 
the  possibility  that  the  unchangeable  God  might  be 
reached  by  supplication — and  the  possibility  that  even 
a  philosopher  and  a  Jew  might  be  mistaken. 

But 


A  WAR-SONG  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


By  John  Noal. 


MEN  of  the  North !  look  up  ! 

There's  a  tumult  in  your  sky  ; 
A  troubled  glory  surging  out  ; 

Great  shadows  hurrying  by  : 

Your  strength — Where  is  it  now') 
Your  quivers — Are  they  spent  1 

Your  arrows  in  the  rust  of  death, 
Your  fathers1  bows  unbent  1 

Men  of  the  North !    Awake  ! 

Ye're  called  to  from  the  Deep  ; 
Trumpets  in  every  breeze — 

Yet  there  ye  lie  asleep  : 

A  stir  in  every  tree  ; 

A  shout  from  every  wave  ; 
A  challenging  on  every  side  ; 

A  moan  from  every  grave  : 

A  battle  in  the  sky; 

Ships  thundering  through  the  air- 
Jehovah  on  the  march — 

Men  of  the  North,  to  prayer ! 

Now,  now — in  all  your  strength ; 
I        There's  that  before  your  way, 
Above,  about  you,  and  below, 
Like  armies  in  array : 


1S4  THE    PORTLAND    SKETCH    BOOK. 

Lift  up  your  eyes,  and  see 

The  changes  overhead  ; 
Now  hold  your  breath  !  and  hear 

The  mustering  of  the  dead. 

Sec  how  the  midnight  air 

With  bright  commotion  burns, 

Thronging  with  giant  shape, 
Banner  and  spear  by  turns — 

The  sea-fog  driving  in, 

Solemnly  and  swift ; 
The  Moon  afraid — stars  dropping  out- 

The  very  skies  adrift : 

The  Everlasting  GOD  : 

Our  Father — Lord  of  Love — 

With  cherubim  and  seraphim 
All  gathering  above — 

Their  stormy  plumage  lighted  up 
As  forth  to  war  they  go  ; 

The  shadow  of  the  Universe, 
Upon  our  haughty  foe  ! 


MUSINGS  ON  MUSIC. 

Bj  Jarae«   F.   Oui. 

And  while  I  was  muaing,  t!je  fire  buraed. — Holy   Writ. 
THE    ORIGIN    OF    MUSIC. 

Music  is  the  wondrous  breathing  of  God's  spirit  in  our 
souls.  As  we  view  the  "  floor  of  heaven,  thickly  in- 
laid with  patines  of  pure  gold,"  we  feel  that 

There  'a  not  the  smallest  orb  which  we  behoM, 
Slill  quiring-  to  the  young  eyed  cherubim. 

We  feel  it  in  the  constitution  of  the  air,  which  causes 
vibration — in  the  formation  of  man,  possessed  of  the 
wonderful  faculties  enabling  him  to  sing,  to  distinguish 
musical  sounds,  and  to  feel  within  his  whole  frame  the 
effects  of  music.  Man,  indeed,  is  himself  a  wonderful 
musical  instrument,  made  by  the  hand  of  God.  He 
hears  all  nature  hymning  adoration  and  praises  to  its 
Maker — he  feels  the  constant  vibration  of  universal 
harmony  around  him — he  is  conscious  that  the  emo- 
tions of  gratitude  he  feels  toward  the  Creator  should  be 
expressed,  and  that  in  the  highest  strains  which  the 
human  mind  can  conceive,  and  the  human  voice  can 
reach.  Thus  he  calls  in  to  his  aid  all  those  auxiliaries 
which  nature  and  art  afford,  to  supply  him  with  asso- 
ciations tending  to  elevate  the  standard  of  his  grateful 
expressions.  Music  is  a  sacred,  a  religious,  a  holy 
thing.  Applied  to  common  purposes,  it  is  pleasing  and 


186         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

worthy  of  cultivation — but  still  it  has  a  higher  charac- 
ter when  used  for  its  original  and  more  worthy  pur- 
pose. The  effect  it  produces  in  the  former  instance 
is  to  raise  our  mirth : — when  used  in  its  higher  char- 
acter, its  effect  is  to  produce  rapture.  It  soothes  when 
thus  employed,  as  of  old  it  did  when  David  banished 
the  evil  spirit,  from  the  soul  of  Saul  by  the  vibrations  of 
his  sweet-toned  harp  ;  it  improves — as  all  good  influ- 
ences and  pure  associations  ever  must,  when  permit- 
ted their  due  action  upon  the  mind  ;  and  it  elevates  the 
spirit  toward  the  eternal  source  whence  all  its  harmo- 
ny flows.  As  it  peals  upon  the  ear,  and  sinks  inly  up- 
on the  heart  of  him  whose  mind  is  bent  upon  the 
thoughts  of  holy  things — upon  his  creation,  his  present 
blessings  and  future  hopes,  he  seems  to  hear 

That  undisturbed  «ong  of  pure  content, 
Aye  Bung  around  the  sapphire-colored  throne, 
To  him  that  sits  thereon  — 

L    •*..  Where  Ow  bright  seraphim,  In  burning  row, 

Their  loud,  uplifted  angel  trumpets  blow  ; 
And  the  cherubic  hosts,  In  thousand  chuira, 
Touch  their  celestial  harps  of  golden  wire*. 


HANDEL    AND    HAYDN.       THE    MESSIAH    AND    THE    CREA- 
TION,   A    PARABLE. 

HANDEL,  with  all  his  comparative  simplicity,  is  my  fa- 
vorite. I  cannot  but  look  up  to  him  with  astonishment 
and  veneration ;  his  "  Messiah,"  I  behold  as  the  purest 
specimen  of  sublimity  ever  displayed  in  the  arts  :  and 
I  can  conceive  of  nothing  in  poetiy  with  any  preten- 
sion to  be  considered  its  parallel,  but  the  "  Paradise 
Lost"  of  Milton.  The  "Hallelujah  Chorus"  may 
be  esteemed  the  loftiest  work  of  the  imagination.  The 


MUSINGS    ON    MUSIC.  187 

leading  conception  is  entirely  inimitable.  The  full 
chorus  of  other  masters  is  often  bold  and  elevated  ;  but 
it  is  only  Handel  who  has  the  sublime  of  devotion. 
Haydn  is  triumphant  and  inspiring  ;  but  the  effect  of 
his  chorus  is  only  that  of  martial  music.  In  listening 
to  Haydn,  you  seem  to  hear  the  shouts  of  conquerors, 
proudly  entering  a  vanquished  city  :  in  listening  to 
Handel,  the  shouts  seem  to  break  from  the  clouds  ; 
from  the  triumphant  host  admitted  to  the  presence  of 
God  ;  and  the  object  of  praise  gives  a  character  of  ho- 
liness and  purity  to  the  harmony.  With  Haydn, 
we  exult,  we  reason  not  why.  With  Handel,  we 
can  never  for  a  moment  forget  that  we  are  praising 
God.  The  rapid  movements  and  quick  transitions  of 
Haydn  draw  the  fullest  admiration  to  the  orchestra, 
and  the  subject  is  forgotten.  The  lighter  passages  in 
Handel  are  only  the  varied  note  of  praise,  expanding 
only  in  proportion  to  the  inspiration  which  the.,  object 
kindles.  In<one  word, — every  thing  in  Haydn  is  seen 
to  be  accomplished  ;  and  every  delineation,  if  I  may 
thus  employ  the  word,  is  felt  to  be  a  resemblance. 
But  in  Handel,  let  what  will  be  described  or  exhibited, 
— a  battle, — a  victory, — the  trembling  of  the  earth, — 
the  tottering  of  a  wall, — the  moan  of  sympathy, — the 
insults  and  crucifixion  of  a  Savior, — the  awful  stillness 
of  death, — or,  on  the  other  hand,  the  triumph  of  the 
resurrection, — the  birth  of  the  Prince  of  Peace, — or 
hosannas  to  the  King  of  Kings,  and  Lord  of  Lords, — 
every  thing  seems  to  be  done  at  the  command  of  God 
himself. 

But  1  conceive  it  is  not  difficult  to  reconcile  an  ad- 
miration of  both  these  great  masters,  in  as  much  as 
their  music  presents  such  a  variety  only  as  every  art 


188         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

> 

admits.  Claude  Loraine  was  no  rival  of  Raphael — 
yet  we  stand  with  one  before  a  landscape,  and  with 
the  other  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  with  like,  if  not 
equal  astonishment  and  admiration.  The  recitatives 
of  Haydn  are,  with  scarcely  a  single  exception,  less 
bold,  but  better  finished, — less  abrupt,  and  better  cal- 
culated for  the  scope  of  the  voice,  than  those  of 
Handel  ;  and  are  supported  by  a  harmony  more  grace- 
ful, though  not  more  striking  and  natural.  Haydn,  at 
all  times,  threw  the  fascination  of  melody  over  his 
lichcst  modulations,  and  the  whole  effect  of  his  harmo- 
ny resulted  from  conspiring  airs,  each  of  which  was 
melodious  by  itself.  While,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
separate  parts  in  Handel  were  like  single  pillars  from 
a  temple,  or  single  stones  from  a  pyramid.  If,  in 
Handel,  appear  the  beauty  of  consistency, — in  Haydn 
we  admire  the  consistency  of  beauty.  If  Handel's 
choruses  and  harmony  might  be  compared,  both  in 
their  formation  and  beauty,  to  mountains  of  ice,  illu- 
minated by  the  sun, — Haydn's  harmony  would  seem 
to  resemble  the  most  splendid  crystalizations — under 
the  same  illumination,  in  which  one  form  of  beauty 
has  gradually  encircled  another,  until  the  shape  and 
beauty  of  the  minutest  part  has  become  imparted  to 
the  larger  proportions,  and  more}  commanding  figure 
of  the  whole  mass.  It  is  impossible  indeed,  to  find 
any  thing  in  music, — placing  his  choruses  out  of  view, 
— which  can  rival  the  sublime  recitative  of  Handel, — 
"  For  behold  darkness  shall  cover  the  earth, — but  the 
Lord  shall  arise  !  '' — Yet  the  opening  of  Haydn's  "  Cre- 
ation," may  deserve  to  be  ranked  second  only  to  this, 
and  as  surpassing  every  other  attempt  of  its  author,  in 
sublimity,  and  deep,  solemn  grandeur.  The  fall  of 


MUSINGS    ON    MUSIC.  189 

the  angels,  in  the  first  part  of  the  same  noble  oratorio, 
is  a  wonderful  effort,  and  presents  the  most  remarkable 
instance  in  all  Haydn's  compositions,  of  the  character- 
istic excellence  which  has  just  been  ascribed  to  him, 
namely,  his  uniform  regard  to  his  melody,  even  where 
he  designed  to  produce  the  boldest  effect  in  his  harmo- 
ny. It  is  the  most  graphic  musical  description  ever 
attempted ;  and  it  must  have  been  produced  in  one  of 
those  moments  of  lofty  enthusiasm  in  which  a  concep- 
tion of  surpassing  grandeur  flashes  upon  the  mind,  is 
grasped  and  embodied  in  an  instant,  and  a  man  pauses 
in  exultation  and  astonishment  at  what  he  has  himself 
accomplished.  This  passage,  however, — if  it  had  no 
other  excellence, — could  never  be  forgotten,  as  it 
gives  the  most  striking  effect  to  the  inimitable  contrast 
which  succeeds, — where  the  first  impression  of  the 
beauty  of  the  world  at  the  moment  of  the  creation  is 
described  with  such  tenderness  and  grace,  that  the 
most  vulgar  minds,  as  well  as  those  whose  taste  has 
been  in  some  degree  refined,  have  felt  every  note,  as 
it  came  from  the  forms  of  living  things,  exulting 
in  their  existence — or  as  if  the  author  had  borrowed 
the  lyre  of  the  morning  stars,  that  sang  the  glories  of 
the  "  new  created  world." — The  celebrated  chorus, 
"  The  Heavens  are  telling  the  glory  of  God,"  is  un- 
questionably the  boldest  conception  of  Haydn.  Its 
harmony  has  the  most  astonishing  richness  and  variety, 
and  the  leading  air  is  almost  unexceptionably  beautiful. 
Yet  it  may  be  called  a  chorus  in  theory  only  ;  for  it 
requires  the  fullest  choir  of  the  finest  voices  and  most 
refined  tastes, — and  no  community  of  any  country  can 
furnish  a  hundred  and  fifty  singers,  capable  of  perform- 
ing it,  even  with  a  tolerable  degree  of  spirit,  judgment 
17 


190        THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

and  correctness.  By  this  remark  I  mean  merely,  that 
the  original  conception  of  the  author,  and  that  with 
which  every  one  who  feels  its  true  beauty  and  force  is 
filled,  upon  studying,  or  hearing  it, — can  never  be  ful- 
ly realized  and  carried  out,  and  filled  up,  by  the  finest 
combination  of  human  powers. 

There  have  not  been  wanting  writers  upon  the  beau- 
tiful in  music,  who  have  denounced  what  they  are  plea- 
sed to  call  attempts  at  picturesque,  in  the  "  Creation  " 
of  Haydn.  Their  arguments  proceed  upon  the  trifling 
nature  of  the  results  produced  by  imitations,  as  unwor- 
thy the  dignity  of  an  art  so  refined.  The  feelings 
awakened  by  the  gradual  developement  of  the  work  of 
creation  in  this  immortal  work  are  certainly  far  superi- 
or in  their  nature  to  those  imputed  by  such  writers  to 
the  admirers  of  what  they  call  depictive  music  ; — and 
I  cannot  believe  that  these  objectors  can  have  listened 
to  the  oratorio  they  criticise,  either  with  the  physical 
or  rational  ear.  Had  they,  we  should  have  heard 
nothing  like  an  imputation  of  an  unsuccessful  imitation 
of  trifling  originals.  They  would  have  seen  no  other 
use  of  the  musical  picturesque  than  perfectly  consists 
with  true  descriptiveness  of  the  subject  celebrated. 
The  Creation  is  a  grand  panorama  ;  its  object  was  to 
impress  the  hearer  with  the  realities  it  commemorates. 
Its  author  was  engaged  two  whole  years  upon  it,  and 
gave  as  a  reason  for  his  absorption  in  the  task,  that  he 
meant  it  to  last  a  great  while.  He  has  composed  a 
work  ft'hich  addresses  itself  to  the  mind  in  such  a  man- 
ner, as  to  call  up  to  the  eye  the  landscape,  as  well  as 
to  the  ear  the  sounds,  and  to  the  conception  the  ani- 
mation and  motion  of  the  scenes  described.  Surely  a 
beautiful  thought,  a  fine  description,  an  impassioned 


MUSINGS    ON    MUSIC.  191 

sentiment,  impressed  upon  the  mind  and  memory  by  a 
strong  association  with  almost  all  the  senses  at  once, 
are  more  likely  to  become  inseparably  entwined  among 
the  very  fibres  of  the  heart,  than  a  cold,  abstract  de- 
scription of  the  same  subject,  without  the  intervention 
of  such  associations.  I  should  pity  the  man  who  could 
utter  such  a  criticism,  while  listening  to  the  perform- 
ance, or  even  reading  the  score  of  this  most  splendid 
oratorio.  From  the  commencement, — conveying  the 
idea  of  primeval  chaos, — through  the  gradual  gather- 
ing of  the  earth  and  sea,  and  the  things  which  each 
contains,  into  thei-r  several  places, — the  budding  and 
blooming  of  the  thousand  flowers, — the  cooing  of  the 
tender  doves, — the  trampling  of  the  heavy  beasts, — 
the  flowing  of  the  gentle  rills, — the  rolling  of  the 
mountain  waves, — the  bursting  of  light  at  the  Creator's 
word, — angels  praising  God, — the  noble  work  of  man's 
creation, — the  achievement  of  the  whole, — up  to  the 
last  grand  and  glorious  chorus, — all  is  sublimity — all 
is  divine  !  and  the  whole  soul  of  the  auditor  is  wrapt  in 
sacred  awe,  as  he  follows  the  beneficent  hand  of  his 
Maker  in  its  wonderful  work,  and  is  lost  in  rapture  and 
adoration,  amid  the  blaze  of  glory  by  which  he  finds 
himself  surrounded  at  the  close. 


SOME   THOUGHTS    ON    OPERATIVE    MUSIC. 

There  are  those  who  institute  a  comparison  between 
music  and  poetry,  and  much  to  the  prejudice  of  the 
former.  They  argue  that  the  intellect  has  nothing  to 
do  with  music,  and  that  it  is  ridiculous  and  absurd  in 


192        THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

those  who  speak  no  Italian,  to  pretend  to  derive  any 
satisfaction  from  listening,  for  two  hours,  to  music  in  a 
language  they  cannot  understand — affecting,  at  the 
same  time,  to  comprehend  the  sense  to  be  conveyed, 
by  the  sounds  they  drink  in  with  such  assumed  rapture. 
I  conceive  this  to  be  far  from  just  reasoning.  Doubt- 
less there  is  a  great  deal  of  affectation  in  the  fashiona- 
ble world  upon  the  subject  of  music  in  general,  and  of 
the  opera  in  particular  ;  but  we  have  no  right  to  judge 
our  neighbor's  taste  by  our  own — perhaps,  after  all,  it 
may  turn  out  that  our  own  is  defective  or  false.  I  am 
inclined  to  argue  that  the  intellect  has  as  much  to  do 
with  music  as  with  poetry. 

In  judging  of  pieces  adapted  to  music,  we  should  be 
lenient  on  the  subject  of  the  thoughts,  if  the  design  and 
story  have  variety  enough  to  afford  a  basis  for  a  cor- 
responding variety  of  musical  ideas.  The  most  com- 
mon expression  of  any  passion  may  be  tolerated,  when 
the  music,  not  the  poetry,  is  to  form  the  embellishment. 
Who  cares  for  the  story — the  plot — in  listening  to  the 
Italian  opera  1  Nay,  more — are  not  the  finest  and 
most  beautiful  pieces  of  that  class  of  music,  vulgar  and 
weak  as  poetical  compositions!  Is  not  the  musical  com- 
poser the  genius  of  the  piece  1  While  the  poet  utters 
some  such  trash  as  '  I  shall  support  myself  by  feasting 
on  your  beautiful  eyes,'  the  composer  so  varies  the 
expression  of  his  music,  that,  in  truth,  the  thought 
becomes  refined,  just  as  it  would  if  the  poet  had  under- 
taken to  present  it  in  a  variety  of  views.  To  say, 
therefore,  that  the  repetitions  in  music  are  nonsense,  is 
just  to  profess  a  deplorable  ignorance  of  the  science. 
The  words  convey  a  sentiment  which  the  musician 
undertakes  to  increase — to  soften — to  embellish,  through 


MUSINGS    ON    MUSIC.  193 

a  series  of  fine  ideas,  of  which  those  who  have  neither 
musical  taste  nor  ear  have  not  the  least  conception. 

Nor  should  it  be  supposed  that,  in  the  opera — in  the 
fine  pieces  of  Metastasio,  for  instance — the  poetry  is 
disgraced  by  being  but  the  handmaid  of  musjc,  and 
that  the  former  is  therefore  reduced  unduly  in  the  scale 
of  comparative  merit.  This  is  not  the  case  with  him 
who  is  an  equal  admirer  of  the  two  arts.  Such  as 
these  will  admit  that  it  is  but  in  a  very  small  degree 
that  music  is  designed  to  please  a  sense.  They  will 
insist  that  its  design  is  to  excite  emotions  that  poetry, 
to  the  same  extent,  cannot  awaken.  What  speech  in 
the  whole  Iliad  rouses  more  exulting  courage  than  the 
'  Marsellois  Hymn  1 '  The  music  of  '  PleyePs  German 
Hymn'  not  only  of  itself  produces  an  effect  to  awaken 
a  feeling  of  grief,  but  no  words  that  I  have  ever  read 
are  capable  of  producing  that  feeling  in  an  equal  de- 
gree. Take  for  example,  the  lamentation  of  David  for 
the  loss  of  Absalom — and  if  that  passage,  and  others 
like  it,  are  enough  to  melt  or  break  the  heart,  there  is 
a  kind  of  music,  of  which  '  Pleyel's  Hymn '  is  an 
example,  that  will  affect  it  more  deeply  yet. 

Words,  considered  as  auxiliary  to  music,  merely 
show  the  subject  on  which  the  emotion  rests,  but  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  emotion  itself;  that  is  produced 
by  music  alone — and  long  before  any  words  are  known 
to  an  air,  the  emotion  will  have  been  produced.  We 
shall  have  imagined  the  subject — and  when  we  come 
to  know  the  words,  we  shall  discover  one  of  three 
things  :  first,  that  the  subject  is  what  we  imagined — 
secondly,  that  it  is  something  analogous  to  our  percep- 
tion— or,  thirdly,  if  neither  of  the  two  former,  that  the 
words  and  air  are  ill-adapted  to  each  other.  Indeed, 
17* 


194         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

what  do  we  mean  by  saying,  '  these  words  are  adapted 
to  the  air,'  if  the  air  have  no  character  of  its  own  1 
And  what  is  its  character  but  its  peculiar  power  of 
awakening  certain  emotions  1  Admitting  that  it  is 
better  that  fine  poetry  and  fine  harmony  should  be 
united,  when  possible — and  that  this  union,  of  course, 
produces  additional  delight  to  a  refined  mind, — it  still 
seems  to  me  very  absurd  to  condemn  the  pieces  which 
are  constructed  upon  ideas  conveyed  in  poetry  of  an 
inferior  class,  merely  because  such  is  the  character  of 
the  poetry.  Music  is  the  governor  of  the  heart,  and  all 
she  asks  of  Poetry  is  a  subject, — and  then,  delightful 
magician  !  it  is  her  province  to  call  up,  by  her  sweet 
spell,  the  corresponding  emotions  ! 


SIX  ESTIMATED  BY  THE  LIGHT  OF  HEAVEN. 


Bv  EJwarl  Pai 


IT  is  a  well  known  fact  that  the  appearance  of  objects, 
and  the  ideas  which  we  form  of  them,  are  very  much 
afFected  by  the  situation  in  which  they  are  placed  with 
respect  to  us,  and  by  the  light  in  which  they  are  seen. 
Objects  seen  at  a  distance,  for  example,  appear  much 
smaller  than  they  really  are.  The  same  object,  viewed 
through  different  mediums,  will  often  exhibit  very  dif- 
ferent appearances.  A  lighted  candle,  or  a  star,  ap- 
pears bright  during  the  absence  of  the  sun  ;  but  when 
that  luminary  returns,  their  brightness  is  eclipsed. 


SIN    ESTIMATED    BY    THE    LIGHT    OF    HEAVEN.     195 

Since  the  appearance  of  objects,  and  the  ideas  which 
we  form  of  them,  are  thus  affected  by  extraneous  cir- 
cumstances, it  follows,  that  no  two  persons  will  form 
precisely  the  same  ideas  of  any  object,  unless  they 
view  it  in  the  same  light,  or  are  placed  with  respect  to 
it  in  the  same  situation. 

These  remarks  have  a  direct  and  important  bearing 
upon  our  subject.  No  person  can  read  the  scriptures 
candidly  and  attentively,  without  perceiving  that  God 
and  men  differ,  very  widely,  in  the  opinion  which  they 
entertain  respecting  almost  every  object.  And  in  no- 
thing do  they  differ  more  widely,  than  in  the  estimate 
they  form  of  man's  moral  character,  and  of  the  malig- 
nity and  desert  of  sin.  Nothing  can  be  more  evident 
than  the  fact,  that,  in  the  sight  of  God,  our  sins  are 
incomparably  more  numerous,  aggravated  and  criminal, 
than  they  appear  to  us.  He  regards  us  as  deserving 
of  an  endless  punishment,  while  we  scarcely  perceive 
that  we  deserve  any  punishment  at  all.  Now  whence 
arises  this  difference  1  The  remarks  which  have  just 
been  made  will  inform  us.  God  and  men  view  objects 
through  a  very  different  medium,  and  are  placed,  with 
respect  to  them,  in  a  very  different  situation.  God  is 
present  with  every  object;  he  views  it  as  near  and 
therefore  sees  its  real  magnitude.  But  many  objects, 
especially  those  of  a  religious  nature,  are  seen  by  us 
at  a  distance,  and,  of  course,  appear  to  us  smaller  than 
they  really  are.  God  sees  every  object  in  a  perfectly 
clear  light ;  but  we  see  most  objects  dimly  and  indis- 
tinctly. In  fine,  God  sees  all  objects  just  as  they  are ; 
but  we  see  them  through  a  deceitful  medium,  which 
ignorance,  prejudice  and  self-love  place  between  them 
and  us. 


196        THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

The  Psalmist,  addressing  God,  says,  thou  hast  set 
our  iniquities  before  thee,  our  secret  sins  in  the  light  of 
thy  countenance,  that  is,  our  iniquities  or  open  trans- 
gressions, and  our  secret  sins,  the  sins  of  our  hearts, 
are  placed,  as  it  were,  full  before  God's  face,  imme- 
diately under  his  eye ;  and  he  sees  them  in  the  pure, 
clear,  all-disclosing  light  of  his  own  holiness  and  glory. 
Now  if  we  would  see  our  sins  as  they  appear  to  him, 
that  is,  as  they  really  are  ;  if  we  would  sec  their  num- 
ber, blackness  and  criminality,  and  the  malignity  and 
desert  of  every  sin,  we  must  place  ourselves,  as  nearly 
as  is  possible,  in  his  situation,  and  look  at  sin,  as  it 
were,  through  his  eyes.  We  must  place  ourselves  and 
our  sins  in  the  centre  of  that  circle,  which  is  irradiated 
by  the  light  of  his  countenance  ;  where  all  his  infinite 
perfections  arc  clearly  displayed,  where  his  awful 
majesty  is  seen,  where  his  concentrated  glories  blaze, 
and  burn,  and  dazzle,  with  insufferable  brightness  ;  and 
in  order  to  this,  we  must,  in  thought,  leave  our  dark 
and  sinful  world,  where  God  is  unseen  and  almost  for- 
gotten, and  where,  consequently,  the  evil  of  sinning 
against  him  cannot  be  fully  perceived — and  mount  up 
to  heaven,  the  peculiar  habitation  of  his  holiness  and 
glory. 

Let  us,  then,  attempt  this  adventurous  flight.  Let 
us  follow  the  path  by  which  our  blessed  Savior  ascend- 
ed to  heaven,  and  soar  upward  to  the  great  capital  of 
the  universe  ;  to  the  palace  and  the  throne  of  its  great- 
er King.  As  we  rise,  the  earth  fades  away  from  our 
view ;  now  we  leave  worlds,  and  suns,  and  systems 
behind  us.  Now  we  reach  the  utmost  limits  of  crea- 
tion ;  now  the  last  star  disappears,  and  no  ray  of  crea- 
ted light  is  seen.  But  a  new  light  begins  to  dawn  and 


SIN    ESTIMATED    BY    THE    LIGHT    OF    HEAVEN.      197 

brighten  upon  us.  It  is  the  light  of  heaven,  which 
pours  a  flood  of  glory  from  its  wide-open  gates,  spread- 
ing continual,  meridian  day,  far  and  wide  through  the 
regions  of  ethereal  space.  Passing  swiftly  onward 
through  this  flood  of  day,  the  songs  of  heaven  begin  to 
burst  upon  your  ears,  and  voices  of  celestial  sweetness, 
yet  loud  as  the  sound  of  many  waters  and  of  mighty 
thunderings,  are  heard  exclaiming,  Hallelujah  !  for  the 
Lord  God  omnipotent  reigneth  !  Blessing,  and  glory, 
and  honor,  and  power,  be  unto  Him  that  sitteth  on  the 
throne,  and  to  the  Lamb,  forever.  A  moment  more, 
and  you  have  passed  the  gates — you  are  in  the  midst 
of  the  city — you  are  before  the  eternal  throne — you 
are  in  the  immediate  presence  of  God,  and  all  his  glo- 
ries are  blazing  around  you  like  a  consuming  fire.  Flesh 
and  blood  cannot  support  it ;  your  bodies  dissolve  into 
their  original  dust ;  but  your  immortal  souls  remain, 
and  stand  naked  spirits  before  the  great  Father  of  spirits. 
Nor,  in  losing  their  tenements  of  clay,  have  they  lost 
their  powers  of  perception.  No  ;  they  are  now  all  eye, 
all  ear ;  nor  can  you  close  the  eyelids  of  the  soul,  to 
shut  out,  for  a  moment,  the  dazzling,  overpowering 
splendors  which  surround  you,  and  which  appear  like 
light  condensed ;  like  glory  which  may  be  felt.  You 
see  indeed  no  form  or  shape  ;  and  yet  your  whole  souls 
perceive  with  intuitive  clearness  and  certainty,  the  im- 
mediate, awe-inspiring  presence  of  Jehovah.  You  see 
no  countenance ;  and  yet  you  feel  as  if  a  countenance 
of  awful  majesty,  in  which  all  the  perfections  of  divini- 
ty are  shown  forth,  were  beaming  upon  you  wherever 
you  turn.  You  see  no  eye  ;  and  yet  a  piercing,  heart- 
searching  eye,  an  eye  of  omniscient  purity,  every 
glance  of  which  goes  through  your  souls  like  a  flash  of 


198         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

lightning,  seems  to  look  upon  you  from  every  point  ol' 
surrounding  space.  You  feel  as  if  enveloped  in  an 
atmosphere,  or  plunged  in  an  ocean  of  existence,  in- 
telligence, perfection  and  glory ;  an  ocean  of  which 
your  laboring  minds  can  tr.lie  in  only  a  drop  ;  an  ocean, 
the  depth  of  which  you  cannot  fathom,  and  the  breadth 
of  which  you  can  never  fully  explore.  But  while  you 
feel  utterly  unable  to  comprehend  this  infinite  Being, 
your  views  of  him,  so  far  as  they  extend,  are  perfectly 
clear  and  distinct.  You  have  the  most  vivid  percep- 
tions, the  most  deeply  graven  impressions,  of  an  infi- 
nite, eternal,  spotless  mind  ;  in  which  the  image  of  all 
things,  past,  present  and  to  come,  are  most  harmoni- 
ously seen,  arranged  in  the  most  perfect  order,  and 
defined  with  the  nicest  accuracy ;  of  a  mind,  which 
wills  with  infinite  ease,  but  whose  volitions  are  attend- 
ed by  a  power  omnipotent  and  irresistible,  and  which 
sows  worlds,  suns  and  systems  through  the  fields  of 
space  with  far  more  facility,  than  the  husbandman 
scatters  his  seed  upon  the  earth ;  of  a  mind,  whence 
have  flowed  all  the  streams,  which  ever  watered  any 
part  of  the  universe  with  life,  intelligence,  holiness,  or 
happiness,  and  which  is  still  fully  overflowing  and  in- 
exhaustible. You  perceive  also,  with  equal  clearness 
and  certainty,  that  this  infinite,  eternal,  omnipotent, 
omniscient,  all-wise,  all-creating  mind  is  perfectly  and 
essentially  holy,  a  pure  flame  of  holiness  ;  and  that,  as 
such,  he  regards  sin  with  unutterable,  irreconcilable 
detestation  and  abhorrence.  With  a  voice,  which  re- 
verberates through  the  wide  expanse  of  his  dominions, 
you  hear  him  saying,  as  the  Sovereign  and  Legislator 
of  the  universe,  Be  ye  holy  ;  for  I,  the  Lord  your  God, 
am  holy.  And  you  see  his  throne  surrounded,  you  see 


SIN    ESTIMATED    BY   THE    LIGHT    OF   HEAVEN.     199 

heaven  filled  by  those  only,  who  perfectly  obey  this 
command.  You  see  thousands  of  thousands,  and  ten 
thousand  times  ten  thousand  of  angels  and  archangels, 
pure,  exalted,  glorious  intelligences,  who  reflect  his  per- 
fect image,  burn  like  flames  of  fire  with  zeal  for  his 
glory,  and  seem  to  be  so  many  concentrations  of  wis- 
dom, knowledge,  holiness  and  love ;  a  fit  retinue  for 
the  thrice  holy  Lord  of  hosts,  whose  holiness  and  all- 
filling  glory  they  unceasingly  proclaim. 

And  now,  if  you  are  willing  to  see  your  sins  in  their 
true  colors ;  if  you  would  rightly  estimate  their  num- 
ber, magnitude  and  criminality,  bring  them  into  this 
hallowed  place,  where  nothing  is  seen  but  the  white- 
ness of  unsullied  purity,  and  the  splendors  of  uncreated 
glory  ;  where  the  sun  itself  would  appear  a  dark  spot, 
and  there,  in  the  midst  of  this  circle  of  seraphic  intel- 
ligences, with  the  infinite  God  pouring  all  the  light  of 
his  countenance  around  you,  review  your  lives,  con- 
template your  offences,  and  see  how  they  appear. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  SOUL. 

By    L.    S.  P. 

THERE  is  a  homely  proverb  which  tells  us  that  "  the 
longest  way  round  is  the  shortest  way  home.  "  Wheth- 
er the  mathematical  demonstration  of  so  paradoxical  an 
assertion  would  be  easy  or  difficult  I  shall  not  under- 
take to  decide.  My  concern  is  with  its  application  to 
the  spiritual ;  and  with  such  a  reference,  are  there  not 
many  in  these  hurrying  clays  who  would  be  benefited 
by  a  serious  attention  to  it  1 

Do  you  doubt  its  truth  1  Reflect,  and  you  will  be 
convinced.  Have  you  never  groped  darkly  after  a 
principle,  of  which  you  had  some  dim  revelation,  and 
which  you  strove  with  mightiest  working  to  make  your 
own  1rJ  still  as  you  seemed  about  to  seize  it,  it  eluded 
your  grasp  ;  you  were  sure  that  it  was  there  ;  but  to 
lay  hold  of  it  was  beyond  your  strength.  You  gave  up 
the  effort,  turned  your  thoughts  to  a  new  channel, 
and  busied  yourself  with  other  investigations — when  lo  ! 
a  revelation  ;  and  the  truth  you  sought,  burst  upon 
you  as  a  ray  from  the  eternal  splendor. 

Or,  perchance,  you  have  been  all  the  day  perplexed 
and  wearied  with  doubts,  relating,  it  may  be,  to  some 
point  of  practical  moment  to  you,  and  seeming  to  de- 
mand a  solution,  which  yet  you  are  unable  to  give. 
You  would  fain  come  to  an  end,  but  you  cannot  even 
see  an  opening  ;  only  here  and  there  an  uncertain 
glimmer,  which  vanishes  when  you  approach  it  more 
nearly.  Your  soul  is  faint  and  harassed  ;  you  go  forth 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    SOUL.  201 

at  sunset  to  commune  with  nature,  and  in  her  commun- 
ion to  forget  your  perplexities.  You  gaze  on  the  calm 
glories  of  the  departing  sun,  and  the  calm  enters  into 
your  soul ;  the  cooling  breath  of  heaven  comes  to  you, 
and  you  listen  to  the  many  voices,  "  the  melodies  of 
woods  and  winds  and  waters, "  that  go  up  in  one  har- 
mony to  heaven.  You  behold,  and  listen,  and  love  ; — 
and  with  love  comes  light.  Yes,  a  light,  so  pure,  so 
soft,  so  mild,  that  it  seems  not  of  earth  rests  upon  your 
soul,  and  your  darkness,  and  doubts,  and  perplexity 
are  gone. 

Oh,  never  let  it  be  forgotten  that  the  road  to  truth  is 
a  winding  road  ;  it  lies  through  the  heart  as  well  as 
through  the  intellect ;  for,  says  the  wise  man,  "  Into  a 
malicious  soul,  wisdom  shall  not  enter. "  Thou  must 
learn  to  love,  before  thou  canst  learn  to  know ;  and 
never  shall  thou  behold  the  serene  and  beautiful  coun- 
tenance of  Truth,  until  thy  aim  be  honest,  and  thy  soul 
in  harmony  with  nature. 

And  are  not  Nature's  paths  circuitous  1  It  is  man 
who  has  constructed  the  broad  high  road,  and  made 
for  himself  a  straight  way  through  forests  and  streams, 
levelling  the  mountains,  and  filling  up  the  valleys — 
but  it  is  not  thus  in  nature.  Her  paths  are  wild,  and 
devious,  and  rambling ;  following  "  the  river's  course, 
the  valley's  playful  windings,"  and  ever  and  anon 
turning  aside  to  some  sunny  nook,  or  steep  ravine.  The 
rain  which  falls  upon  the  earth  travels  not  by  a  plain 
high  road  to  the  springs  and  fountains  whither  it  is 
bound  ;  but  gently,  slowly  wins  its  way,  drop  by  drop, 
till  a  little  stream  is  formed,  and  the  stream  winds  its 
noiseless  and  hidden  track  to  the  fountain. 

In  her  processes  too,  Nature  is  patient  and  long-wait- 
18 


•-202  THE    PORTLAND    SKETCH    BOOK. 

ing.  She  doth  not  say  to  the  seed  just  planted  in  the 
earth,  spring  up  and  bear  fruit  forthwith,  or  you  shall 
he  cast  out,  but  she  waitcth  for  the  unfolding  of  the 
tender  germ,  and  the  striking  of  the  new-shooting  roots  ; 
and  hath  long  patience,  and  with  slowlicst  care,  and  a 
mother's  enduring  love,  she  bringcth  forth  to  light  the 
first  green  leaf.  Then  she  callcth  for  the  sun  to  shine, 
and  the  dews  to  descend  upon  the  young  plant,  and 
many  days  doth  she  wait  for  the  ripe  fruit. 

But  man,  impatient  man  would  be  wise  in  a  day. 
He  waits  not  for  the  holy  and  mysterious  processes  of  na- 
ture, he  leaves  not  the  wonderful  powers  within  him  to 
unfold  in  silence  and  secrecy,  but  must  ever  disturb 
them  with  his  foolish  meddling  and  impertinent  haste, 
like  some  silly  child,  who  digs  up  the  seed  he  has  plan- 
ted an  hour  ago,  to  see  if  it  have  yet  sprouted.  And 
are  there  not  some  who  deal  in  like  fashion  with  other 
minds  than  their  OAvnT  Educators  let  them  not  be 
called,  for  never  do  they  bring  out  what  is  within.  The 
young  mind  is  not  to  them  a  germ  to  be  unfolded,  an 
infant  to  be  nursed  into  manhood,  but  rather  a  recept- 
acle to  be  filled,  and  stuffed,  and  crammed  as  expedi- 
tiously  as  possible  ;  and  this,  thanks  to  the  numerous 
machines  lately  invented  for  the  purpose,  is  very  quick 
indeed. 

There  have  been  times  when  you  seemed  to  make 
no  progress  in  your  favorite  pursuit.  You  struggled 
without  advancing  as  we  sometimes  do  in  dreams,  or 
though  you  stepped  up  and  down,  it  was  as  in  a  tread- 
mill. So  it  seemed  to  you.  But  was  it  so  1  Nay, 
the  process  was  going  on  within,  though  its  visible 
manifestations  may  have  ceased.  If  no  addition  was 
made  to  the  superstructure,  yet  the  foundations  were 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    SOUL.  '203 

deepening  and  widening  ;  if  the  branches  and  leaves 
did  not  grow,  yet  the  root  strengthened  itself  in  the 
earth. 

But  not  only  so — you  seemed  to  be  going  backward. 
Even  the  ground  slipped  from  under  your  feet,  and 
where  you  had  heretofore  a  firm  standing-place,  you 
found  but  a  swamp.  And  have  you  never  considered 
that  Nature  too  sometimes  works  backwards'!  See 
that  withered  leaf  which  flutters  in  the  breeze,  main- 
taining yet  an  uncertain  hold  upon  the  branch  which 
nurtured  its  younger  growth.  A  fresh  gust  of  wind 
loosens  its  hold,  and  it  is  blown  in  circling  eddies  to  the 
earth.  There  it  rests  till  the  elements  of  decay  in  its 
bosom  have  finished  their  work,  and  it  mixes  with  the 
dust.  "  What  is  this  1  Can  a  mother  forget  her  child  1 
Does  Nature  destroy  her  own  productions  1 "  Ah,  look 
again.  In  that  fresh-blooming  flower,  dyed  with  tints 
of  infinite  softness,  behold  the  withered  leaf.  Nature 
was  as  really  working  to  the  production  of  that  flower 
when  she  decomposed  the  elements  of  the  leaf,  as 
when  she  unfolded  the  germ,  and  elaborated  the  juices, 
and  blended  the  tints  of  the  flower  itself.  It  was  but  a 
glorified  resurrection.  And  your  spiritual  growth  is 
going  on  as  truly  and  steadily,  if  not  as  visibly  and 
delightfully,  when  you  cast  aside  the  slough  of  some 
old  prejudice,  or  painfully  tear  yourself  from  a  cher- 
ished delusion  as  when  the  dawning  of  a  new  truth 
flashes  light  and  joy  upon  your  soul. 

For  what  Coleridge  has  said  of  nations,  is  equally 
true  of  individuals.  "The  progress  of  the  species 
neither  is  nor  can  be,  like  that  of  a  Roman  road,  in  a 
right  line.  It  may  be  more  justly  compared  to  that  of 
a  river,  which,  both  in  its  smaller  reaches  and  larger 


204         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

turnings,  is  frequently  forced  back  towards  its  foun- 
tains, by  objects  which  cannot  otherwise  be  eluded  or 
overcome  ;  yet  with  an  accompanying  impulse  that 
will  ensure  its  advancement  hereafter,  it  is  either  gain- 
ing strength  every  hour  or  conquering  in  secret  some 
difficulty,  by  a  labor  that  contributes  as  effectually  to 
further  its  course,  as  when  it  moves  forward  in  an 
uninterrupted  line." 

I  might  go  on  to  illustrate  the  application  of  this 
truth  to  self-knowledge,  but  it  is  one  easily  made,  by 
each  for  himself.  Its  bearing  upon  our  moral  growth 
must  not  be  so  lightly  passed  over. 

You  have  learned  that  you  have  a  spirit  which  may 
be,  must  be  trained  for  immortality  and  heaven.  You 
have  found  too  that  there  are  difficulties  in  the  way  of 
this  training.  There  is  a  constant  under-current  of  sel- 
fishness ready  to  insinuate  itself  into  all  you  do  ;  there 
is  contempt  for  your  inferiors  in  birth  or  cultivation, 
ever  offering  to  start  up,  and  there  is  a  spirit  of  resent- 
ment against  those  who  have  injured  you  ready  to  take 
fire  on  the  least  provocation.  What  is  to  be  done  with 
these  1  You  do  not  forget  that  to  Him,  whose  "  still, 
small  voice  "  can  speak  with  authority  to  the  spirits  He 
has  made,  must  be  your  first  appeal ;  but  neither  do 
you  forget  that  his  help  is  vouchsafed  to  those  only 
who  help  themselves.  And  how  will  you  help  yourself  1 
Will  you  in  the  plenitude  of  your  might,  and  the  res- 
oluteness of  kindled  energy,  will  the  extinction  of  those 
unruly  passions  7  Try  it ;  exert  the  volition  ;  will  to 
stop  the  flowing  tide  of  revenge  in  your  breast,  and  to 
cause  love  and  forgiveness  to  spring  up  in  its  place. 
Well,  have  you  done  it  1  But  what  means  that  glowing 
cheek — that  flashing  eye — that  compressed  broAv  1  Is 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    SOTTL.  205 

such  the  expression  of  love  ?  Nay  brother,  you  have 
mistaken  the  way.  Not  the  straight  path  of  direct 
volition  will  ever  lead  you  to  your  object. 

But  come  forth  with  me  into  the  field.  Here  are 
"  sweet,  strange  flowers,"  to  glad  thy  heart  with  their 
innocent  beauty,  and  delight  thee  with  their  fragrance  ; 
here  is  the  broad  and  blessed  "  sky  bending  over  "  thee. 
and  the  quiet  lake  at  thy  feet. 

"  The  air  is  spread  with  beauty ;  and  the  «ky 
U  musicil  with  sounds  that  rise  and  die, 
Till  scarce  the  ear  can  catch  them;  then  they  swell, 
Then  send  from  far  a  low,  sweet,  sad  farewell.  " 

And  who  art  thou  that  bringest  discord  and  rough, 
angry  passions  into  a  scene  like  this  1  Ah,  thou  bring- 
est not  discord,  it  has  stolen  from  thy  heart ;  thou  art 
at  peace.  For  it  is  not  a  poetic  fiction  when  we  are 
told  that  a  wayward  spirit,  is  subdued  by  nature's 
loveliness  and  lovingness. 

"  Till  he  can  no  more  endure 
To  be  a  jarring  and  a  dissonant  thin', 
Amidst  tin's  general  dance  and  minttrelsy; 
But,  bursting  into  tears,  wins  back  his  way, 
HU  angry  spirit  healed  and  harmonized, 
By  the  benignant  touch  of  love  and  beauty." 

We  asked,  perchance,  that  our  hearts  might  be  lifted 
above  the  earth,  and  taught  to  repose  with  a  surer  love, 
and  a  more  child-like  trustfulness  on  the  Father  of 
Spirits.  And  did  we  know  that  our  prayer  was  an- 
swered when  the  light  of  our  eyes  was  torn  from  us  ; 
when  our  souls  were  rent  with  bitter  agony,  and  lay 
crushed  and  bowed  beneath  the  stroke  of  His  hand  I 
Yes,  it  was  answered  ;  we  know  it  now,  though  we 
knew  it  not  then.  The  weary  bird  never  reposes  so 
sweetly  in  its  nest,  as  when  it  hath  been  battered  by 
18* 


206         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

the  tempest  and  chased  by  the  vulture  ;  never  doth  the 
little  child  rest  so  lovingly  arid  rejoicingly  on  its  moth- 
er's breast,  as  when  it  hath  there  found  a  shelter  from 
the  injuries  and  taunts  of  its  rude  play-fellows  ;  and 
the  Christian  never  knows  the  full  sweetness  of  the 
words,  "  My  Father  in  Heaven,"  till  he  can  also  add, 
"  there  is  none  that  I  desire  beside  Thee." 


FRAGMENTS  OF  AN  ADDRESS  ON  MUSIC. 

By  EJwarJ  Payson. 

WITHOUT  resorting  to  the  hyperbolical  expressions  oi 
poetry,  or  to  the  dreams  and  fables  of  pagan  mytholo- 
gy, to  the  wonders  said  to  be  performed  by  the  lyre  of 
Amphion  and  the  harp  of  Orpheus, — I  might  place  be- 
fore you  the  prophet  of  Jehovah,  composing  his  ruffled 
spirits  by  the  soothing  influence  of  music,  that  he  might 
be  suitably  prepared  to  receive  a  message  from  the 
Lord  of  Hosts.  I  might  present  to  your  view  the  evil 
spirit,  by  which  jealous  and  melancholy  Saul  was  af- 
flicted, flying,  baffled  and  defeated,  from  the  animating 
and  harmonious  tones  of  David's  harp.  I  might  show 
you  the  same  David,  the  defender  and  avenger  of  his 
flock,  the  champion  and  bulwark  of  his  country,  the 
conqueror  of  Goliah,  the  greatest  warrior  and  monarch 


FRAGMENTS    OF    AN    ADDRESS    ON    MUSIC.         207 

of  his  age,  laying  down  the  sword  and  the  sceptre  to 
take  up  his  harp,  and  exchanging  the  titles  of  victor 
and  king  for  the  more  honorable  title  of  the  sweet 
Psalmist  of  Israel. — But  I  appear  not  before  you  as  her 
advocate ;  for  in  that  character  my  exertions  would  be 
superfluous.  She  is  present  to  speak  for  herself,  and 
assert  her  own  claims  to  our  notice  and  approbation. 
You  have  heard  her  voice  in  the  performances  of  this 
evening;  and  those  of  you,  whom  the  God  of  nature 
has  favored  with  a  capacity  of  feeling  and  understand- 
ing her  eloquent  language,  will,  I  trust,  acknowledge 
that  she  has  pleaded  her  own  cause  with  triumphant 
success  ;  has  given  sensible  demonstration,  that  she 
can  speak,  not  only  to  the  ear,  but  to  the  heart ;  and 
that  she  possesses  irresistible  power  to  soothe,  delight, 
and  fascinate  the  soul.  Nor  was  it  to  the  senses  alone 
that  she  spake ;  but  while,  in  harmonious  sounds,  she 
maintained  her  claims,  and  asserted  her  powers ;  in  a 
still  and  small  but  convincing  voice,  she  addressed  her- 
self directly  to  reason  and  conscience,  proclaiming  the 
most  solemn  and  important  truths  ;  truths  which  per- 
haps some  of  you  did  not  hear  or  regard,  but  which 
deserve  and  demand  our  most  serious  attention. — With 
the  same  irresistible  evidence  as  if  an  angel  had  spok- 
en, from  heaven,  she  said,  There  is  a  God — and  that 
God  is  good  and  benevolent.  For,  my  friends,  who 
but  God  could  have  tuned  the  human  voice,  and  given 
harmony  to  sounds '?  Who,  but  a  good  and  benevo- 
lent God,  would  have  given  us  senses  capable  of  per- 
ceiving and  enjoying  this  harmony  '1  Who,  but  such  a 
being,  would  have  opened  a  way  through  the  ear,  for 
its  passage  to  the  soul  1  Could  blind  chance  have 
produced  these  wonders  of  wisdom  1  or  a  malignant 


208         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

being  these  miracles  of  goodness  T  Could  they  have- 
caused  this  admirable  fitness  between  harmonv  of 
sounds,  and  the  organs  of  sense  by  which  it  is  per- 
ceived 1  No.  They  would  have  cither  given  us  no 
senses,  or  left  them  imperfect,  or  rendered  every  sound 
discordant  and  harsh.  With  the  utmost  propriety,  there- 
fore may  Jehovah  ask,  Who  hath  made  man's  mouth, 
and  planted  the  earl  Have  not  I,  the  Lord  I  With  the 
utmost  justice,  also,  may  he  demand  of  us,  that  all  our 
musical  powers  and  faculties  should  be  consecrated  to 
his  service,  aud  employed  in  celebrating  his  praises. 
To  urge  you  diligently  and  cheerfully  to  perform  this 
pleasing,  reasonable,  and  indispensable  duty,  is  the 
principal  object  of  the  speaker.  Not,  then,  as  the  ad- 
vocate of  music,  but  as  the  ambassador  of  that  God, 
whose  being  and  benevolence,  music  proclaims,  do  I 
now  address  this  assembly,  entreating  every  individual, 
without  delay,  to  adopt  and  practise  the  resolution  of 
the  royal  Psalmist — I  will  sing  unto  the  Lord  as  long 
a>  I  live  ;  I  will  sing  praise  to  my  God  while  I  have 
my  being.  Psa.  civ.  33. 

In  your  imagination  go  back  to  the  origin  of  the 
world,  when,  every  thing  was  very  good,  and  all  cre- 
ation harmonized  together.  All  its  parts,  animate  and 
inanimate,  like  the  voices  and  instruments  of  a  well 
regulated  concert,  helped  to  compose  a  perfect  and 
beautiful  whole  ;  and  so  exquisite  was  the  harmony 
thus  produced,  that  in  the  whole  compass  of  creation, 
not  one  jarring  or  discordant  note  was  heard,  even  by 
the  perfect  ear  of  God  himself. — The  blessed  angels 
of  light  began  the  universal  chorus,  "  when  the  morn- 
ing stars  sang  together,  and  all  the  sons  of  God  shout- 
ed for  joy." 


FRAGMENTS    OF    AN    ADDRESS    ON    MUSIC.         209 

Of  this  universal  concert,  man  was  appointed  the 
terrestrial  leader,  and  was  furnished  with  natural  and 
moral  powers,  admirably  fitted  for  this  blessed  and 
glorious  employment.  His  body,  exempt  from  dissolu- 
tion, disease,  and  decay,  was  like  a  perfect  and  well- 
strung  instrument,  which  never  gave  forth  a  false  or 
uncertain  sound,  but  always  answered,  with  exact  pre- 
cision, the  wishes  of  his  nobler  part,  the  soul.  His 
heart  did  not  then  belie  his  tongue,  when  he  sung  the 
praises  of  his  Creator  ;  but  all  the  emotions  felt  by  the 
one  were  expressed  by  the  other,  from  the  high  notes 
of  ecstatic  admiration,  thankfulness,  and  joy,  down  to 
the  deep  tones  of  the  most  profound  veneration  and 
humility.  In  a  word,  his  heart  was  the  throne  of  ce- 
lestial love  and  harmony,  and  his  tongue  at  once  the 
organ  of  their  will,  and  the  scep'.re  of  their  power. 

We  are  told,  in  ancient  story,  of  a  statue,  formed 
with  such  wonderful  art,  that,  whenever  it  was  visited 
by  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun,  it  gave  forth,  in  honor  of 
that  luminary,  the  most  melodious  and  ravishing  sounds. 
In  like  manner,  man  was  originally  so  constituted,  by 
skill  divine,  that,  whenever  he  contemplated  the  rays 
of  wisdom,  power,  and  goodness,  emanating  from  the 
great  Sun  of  the  moral  system,  the  ardent  emotions  of 
his  soul  spontaneously  burst  forth  in  the  most  pure  and 
exalted  strains  of  adoration  and  praise.  Such  was  the 
world,  such  was  man,  at  the  creation.  Even  in  the 
eye  of  the  Creator,  all  was  good  ;  for,  wherever  he 
turned,  he  saw  only  his  own  image,  and  heard  nothing 
but  his  own  praises.  Love  beamed  from  every  coun- 
tenance ;  harmony  reigned  in  every  breast,  and  flowed 
mellifluous  from  every  tongue  ;  and  the  grand  chorus 
of  praise,  begun  by  raptured  seraphs  round  the  throne, 


210  THE    PORTLAIfD    SKETCH    BOOK. 

and  heard  from  heaven  to  earth,  was  reechoed  back 
from  earth  to  heaven  ;  and  this  blissful  sound,  loud  as 
the  archangel's  trump,  and  sweet  as  the  melody  of  his 
golden  harp,  rapidly  spread,  and  was  received  from 
world  to  world,  and  floated,  in  gently-undulating  waves, 
even  to  the  farthest  bounds  of  creation. 

To  this  primeval  harmony,  a  lamentable  contrast 
followed,  when  sin  untuned  the  tongues  of  angels,  and 
changed  their  blissful  songs  of  praise  into  the  groans 
of  wretchedness,  the  execrations  of  malignity,  the  blas- 
phemies of  impiety,  and  the  ravings  of  despair.  Storms 
and  tempests,  earthquakes  and  convulsions,  fire  from 
above,  and  deluges  from  beneath,  which  destroyed 
the  order  of  the  natural  world,  proved  that  its  baleful 
influence  had  reached  our  earth,  and  afforded  a  faint 
emblem  of  the  jars  and  disorders  which  sin  had  intro- 
duced into  the  moral  system.  Man's  corporeal  part, 
that  lyre  of  a  thousand  strings,  tuned  by  the  finger  of 
God  himself,  destined  to  last  as  long  as  the  soul,  and 
to  be  her  instrument  in  offering  up  eternal  praise,  was, 
at  one  blow,  shattered,  unstrung,  and  almost  irrepara- 
bly ruined.  His  soul,  all  whose  powers  and  faculties, 
like  the  chords  of  an  /Eolian  harp,  once  harmoniously 
vibrated  to  every  breath  of  the  divine  Spirit,  and  ever 
returned  a  sympathizing  sound  to  the  tones  of  kind- 
ness and  love  from  a  fellow-being,  now  became  silent, 
and  insensible  to  melody,  or  produced  only  the  jarring 
and  discordant  notes  of  envy,  malice,  hatred,  and  re- 
venge. The  mouth,  filled  with  cursing  and  bitterness, 
was  set  against  the  heavens  ;  the  tongue  was  inflamed 
with  the  fire  of  hell.  Every  voice,  instead  of  uniting 
in  the  song  of  "  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest,"  was 
now  at  variance  with  the  voices  around  it,  and,  in  bar- 


FRAGMENTS    OF    AN    ADDRESS    ON    MUSIC.          211 

barous  and  dissonant  strains,  sung  praise  to  itself,  or 
was  employed  in  muttering  sullen  murmurs  against  the 
Most  High — in  venting  slanders  against  fellow-crea- 
tures— in  celebrating  and  deifying  some  worthless  idol, 
or  in  singing  the  triumphs  of  intemperance,  dissipation, 
and  excess.  The  noise  of  violence  and  cruelty  was 
heard  mingled  with  the  boasting  of  the  oppressor,  and 
the  cry  of  the  oppressed,  and  the  complaints  of  the 
wretched  ;  while  the  shouts  of  embattled  hosts,  the 
crash  of  arms,  the  brazen  clangor  of  trumpets,  the 
shrieks  of  the  wounded,  the  groans  of  the  dying,  and 
all  the  horrid  din  of  war,  together  with  the  wailings  of 
those  whom  it  had  rendered  widows  and  orphans,  over- 
whelmed and  drowned  every  sound  of  benevolence, 
praise  and  love.  Such  is  the  jargon  which  sin  has  in- 
troduced— such  the  discord  which,  from  every  quarter 
of  our  globe,  has  long  ascended  up  into  the  ears  of  the 
Lord  of  hosts. 


THE  BLUSH. 

By    Mrs.    Elizabeth    Smith. 

THE  soft  warm  air  scarcely  stirred  the  leaves  of  the 
vine,  that  clustered  about  the  bower  of  Eve,  as  she 
lay  with  pale  cheek  and  languid  limbs,  her  first  born 
daughter  resting  upon  her  breast.  Adam  had  led  his 
sons  to  the  field,  that  their  sports  might  not  disturb  the 
repose  of  our  first  mother,  and  the  low  murmur  of  the 
tiny  cascade,  the  monotonous  hum  of  insects,  and 
happy  twitter  of  unfledged  birds,  all  wooed  her  to  slum- 
ber ;  yet  she  slept  not.  She  looked  with  a  mother's 
deep  unutterable  love  upon  the  face  of  her  babe,  yet 
tears  were  in,  her  eye,  and  anxiety  upon  her  brow. 
Herself  the  lasj,  the  perfection  of  the  Creator's  work- 
manship, she  still  marvelled  at  the  surprising  beauty  of 
her  daughter.  She  looked  into  its  dark  liquid  eye,  and 
drank  deep  from  the  fountain  of  maternal  love.  She 
pressed  its  small  foot  and  hand  to  her  lips,  hugged  it 
to  her  full  heart,  and  felt  again  the  bitterness  of  trans- 
gression. She  thought  of  Paradise,  whence  she  had 
expelled  her  children.  She  thought  of  generations  to 
come,  who  might  curse  her  for  their  misery.  She 
thought  of  the  sweet  beauty  of  her  child  on  whom  she 
had  entailed  sorrow,  suffering  and  temptation.  She 
felt  it  murmuring  at  the  fountain  of  life  while  it  stretch- 
ed its  little  hand  to  her  lips.  She  turned  aside  the 
thick  leaves  of  the  grape  vine,  and  looked  out  upon  the 
still  blue  sky,  over  which,  scarcely  moved  the  white 
thin  clouds.  "  My  daughter,"  she  faintly  articulated, 


THE    BLUSH.  213 

u  thou  knowest  not  the  evil  I  have  done  thee.     Let 
these  bitter  tears  attest  my  penitence.     Let  me  teach 
thee  so  to  live,  that  thou   mayst  hereafter  obtain  in 
another  world  the  Paradise  thou  hast  lost  in  this — lost 
by  thy  mother's  guilt.     O,  my  daughter,  would  that  I 
alone  might  suffer,  that  the  whole  wrath  of  my  offend- 
ed Creator  might  fall  on  my  head  and  thou,  and  such 
as  thou,  might  escape. "     The  tears,  the  penitence  of 
Eve  prevailed  ;  a  Heavenly  messenger  was  despatched 
to  console  her,  to  lift  her  thoughts  to  better  hopes  and 
less  gloomy  anticipations. — Since  the  sin  of  our  first 
parents,  and    their  banishment  from  Paradise,   these 
angel  visits  had  been  "  few  and  far  between,"  and  our 
first  mother  hailed  his  approach  with  awe  and  pleasure. 
"  Eve, "  kindly  spake  the  divine  visitant,  "  thy  sorrow 
and  thy  penitence  are  all  known  to  thy  Creator,  and 
though  thy  fault  was  great,  he  yet  careth  for  thee.     I 
am,  sent  to  comfort  thee.     As  thou  didst  disobey  the 
commands  of  God,  death  has  been  brought,  indeed, 
upon  thy  posterity,  but  thy  children  may  not  curse 
thee.     Thy  daughters  shall  imitate  thy  penitence,  and 
so  secure  the  favor  of  Heaven.     To  each  one  shall 
be  given  a  spirit,  capable  of  resisting  temptation,  and 
assimilating  to  that  holiness  from  which  thou  hast  de- 
parted.    Though  sin  and  death  have  entered  the  world 
by  thy  means,  thy  children  will  still  have  only  their 
own  sins  to  answer  for,  and  may  not  justly  reproach 
thee  for  their  errors."     True,  Lord,  responded  Eve, 
but  the  altered  sky,  the  hard  earth  that  scarcely  yields 
its  treasures  to  the  labor  of  Adam,  and  the  changed 
natures  of  the  animals  that  once  meekly  and  kindly 
sported  together,  all  tell  of  my  disobedience,  and  my 
daughter  will  turn  her  eyes  upon  me  when  suffering 
19 


214        THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

and  trial  come,  and  that  look  will  reproach  me  as  the 
cause.  I  am  told  that  our  children  shall  equal  in  num- 
ber the  leaves  of  the  green  wood,  and  the  earth  shall 
hereafter  be  peopled  with  beings  like  ourselves.  I 
shrink  to  think  on  the  mass  of  sorrow  I  have  brought 
upon  my  daughters." 

She  looked  fondly  on  her  babe,  and  timidly  raised 
it  towards  the  beneficent  being  who  paused  at  her 
bower.  "  When  men  shall  become  numerous,  and 
there  shall  be  many  beings  like  these,  fair  and  frail, 
may  not  their  beauty — "  She  paused  and  looked 
anxiously  up.  "  Speak,  Eve,  said  the  messenger,  thy 
request  shall  be  granted.  I  am  sent  to  bestow  upon 
thee  whatever  thou  shalt  ask,  for  this  thy  first  born 
daughter. "  "  I  scarcely  know,  resumed  Eve,  thus  en- 
couraged, but  I  would  ask  for  this  first  daughter  of  an 
erring  mother,  something,  to  warn  her  of  even  the 
approach  of  sin,  something,  that  will  whisper  caution, 
and  speak  of  innocence  and  purity.  Something,  Lord, 
that  will  remind  us  of  Paradise."  "  Hast  thou  not  all 
that,  Eve,  in  the  voice  within,  the  voice  of  conscience  1" 
Eve  dropped  her  head  upon  her  bosom.  "  But  that 
monitor  may  be  disregarded,  my  daughters  may,  like 
their  unhappy  parent,  stifle  its  voice  and  heedlessly 
neglect  its  warnings.  I  would  have  something,  that 
when  flattery  would  mislead,  beauty  bewilder,  or  pas- 
sion lead  astray,  would  outwardly  as  it  were  bid  them 
take  heed,  warn  them  to  shrink  from  the  very  trail  of 
the  serpent  whose  insidious  poison  may  corrupt  and 
destroy.  Hast  thou  nothing  that  will  be  to  the  innocent, 
the  virtuous,  like  a  second  conscience,  to  cause  them 
to  shrink  even  from  the  appearance  of  evil '?  "  The 
angel  smiled,  and  answered  our  mother  with  kindness, 


THE    BLUSH.  215 

and  a  look  of  heavenly  satisfaction.  "  Most  wisely 
hast  thou  petitioned,  O  Eve.  Thou  hast  asked  blessings 
for  thy  posterity,  not  for  thyself.  Thy  daughters  shall 
bless  thee  for  the  gift  thy  prayer  has  obtained. "  The 
spirit  departed.  The  gift  he  bestowed  may  be  seen  on 
the  face  of  the  maiden  when  she  shrinks  from  the  too 
admiring  gaze,  when  her  ear  is  listening  to  the  tale  of 
love,  or  flattery,  when  in  the  solitude  of  her  own 
thoughts  she  starts  at  her  own  imaginings,  when  she 
shrinks  even  from  her  own  reflected  loveliness  in  the 
secrecy  of  home ;  or  abroad,  trembles  at  the  intrusive 
touch,  or  familiar  language,  of  him  who  should  be  her 
guide,  her  protector  from  evil.  That  gift  was  the 
blush. 


THE  WIDOWED  BRIDE. 

By  Mrs.  Ann  S.  Stef.bcni. 

THE  Morn  awoke  in  Hindostan, 

And  blushing,  left  the  couch  of  Night, 
While  soon  her  rosy  smiles  began, 

To  flood  the  dewy  earth  with  light. 
While  yet  the  sultry  day  was  young, 

Came  forth  a  happy  bridal  band, 
With  sunny  smiles  and  English  tongue, 

Which  spoke  them  of  a  distant  land  ; 
They  gathered  round  an  altar-stone, 

Erected  to  the  one  Most  High, 
Standing  in  solitude  alone, 

Mid  signs  of  dark  idolatry. 
Then  two  came  slowly  from  the  crowd  ; 
He  with  a  bearing  bold  and  proud, 
A  haughty  smile  and  flashing  eye, 
Darkling  with  love's  intensity  ; 
While  she,  the  high-born  English  bride, 
Drew  closer  to  that  one  dear  side  ; 
Her  eyelids  drooped,  her  cheek  grew  pale 
As  snow,  beneath  the  bridal  veil, 
As  if  the  weight  of  her  own  bliss 
Were  all  too  much  of  happiness, 
To  thrill  her  heart  and  light  her  eye 
Beneath  another's  scrutiny. 
On  crimson  cushions  dropped  with  gold 

The  youthful  pair  together  bow  ; 
Before  that  priest  in  surplice-fold 

They  clasp  their  trembling  fingers  now  ; 
A  prayer  is  heard — the  oath  is  said — 
That  gentle  creature  lifts  her  head — 
A  voice  has  thrilled  into  her  heart, 
Like  music  breathed  to  it  apart, — 
To  lie  there  an  abiding  spell, 


THE    WIDOWED    BRIDE.  217 

To  haunt  forever  memory's  cell — 
To  mingle  with  her  latest  breath 
And  light  the  very  wing  of  death. 
Her  vow  was  uttered  timidly — 
With  half  a  murmur,  half  a  sigh  ; 
Yet  the  low  faltering  sound  confessed 
The  love  that  brooded  in  her  breast. 

The  golden  ring  is  on  her  hand — 

She  is  pronounced  a  wedded  bride ; 
Oh  say,  why  does  she  lingering  stand 

So  long  that  altar-stone  beside  I 
And  whence  the  misty  tears  that  dim 

The  sunny  azure  of  her  eye  1 
Why  leans  her  slender  form  on  him  7 

Why  docs  she  sob  so  bitterly  1 
Well  may  she  weep,  that  fair  young  bride  ; 
For  up  the  Ganges'  golden  tide, 
Mid  jungles  deep,  where  beasts  of  prey 
With  pestilence  hold  deadly  sway, 
Where  the  wild  waters  fiercest  sweep, 
And  serpents  in  their  venom  sleep, 
Beneath  each  dewy  leaf  and  flower, 
That  gentle  bride  must  build  her  bower. 

In  the  cool  shadow  of  the  shore, 

With  snowy  streamers  floating  wide, 
To  the  light  dipping  of  the  oar, 

The  budgerow  swept  o'er  the  tide  ; 
The  soft  breeze  ling'ring  at  her  prow, 

Where  many  a  garland  graceful  hung, 
In  hues  of  purple,  gold  and  snow, 

And  on  the  rippling  waters  flung 
An  odor  sweet  and  delicate, 

As  that  which  all  imprisoned  lies, 
Unknown  to  man  as  his  own  fate, 

Within  the  flowers  of  Paradise. 

Beneath  an  awning's  silken  shade, 
Where  the  light  breeze  its  music  made, 
19* 


218          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

With  woven  fringe  and  silken  cord, 
Sat  the  young  bride  with  her  brave  lord. 
Her  hand  in  his  was  ling1  ring  still, 

And  every  throb  of  his  full  heart 
Met  her  young  pulses  with  a  thrill, 

And  sent  the  blood  up  with  a  start, 
To  that  round  cheek  but  late  so  pale 
And  blanched  beneath  the  bridal  veil. 
A  tear  still  trembled  in  her  eye, 
Like  dews  that  in  the  violet  lie  ; 
But  breaking  through  its  lovely  sheen, 
The  brightness  of  her  soul  was  seen, 
Like  light  within  the  amethyst, 
Which  told  how  truly  she  was  blest ; 
Though  as  she  met  his  ardent  gaze, 

Like  the  veined  petal  of  a  flower 
Her  eyelids  drooped,  as  from  the  blaze 

Of  some  loved,  high,  but  dreaded  power. 
As  bound  by  some  subduing  spell, 

In  beauty  at  his  side  she  bowed, 
The  bridal  robe  around  her  felt, 

Like  fragments  of  a  summer  cloud  ; 
The  loosened  veil  had  backward  swept, 

And  deeply  in  her  glossy  hair, 
Like  light,  the  orange  blossoms  slept, 

As  if  they  sought  new  beauty  there  ; 
And  pearls  lay  softly  on  her  neck, 

Like  hailstones  melting  over  snow, 
Save  when  the  blood,  that  dyed  her  check. 

Diffused  abroad  its  rosy  glow, 
And  playing  on  her  bosom-swell, 
With  every  heart-pulse  rose  or  fell. 

Up  went  the  sun  ;  his  burning  rays 

Broke  o'er  the  stream  like  sparkling  fire, 
Till  the  broad  Ganges  seemed  a-blaze, 

With  gorgeous  light,  save  where  the  spire 
Of  some  lone  slender  minaret, 

Threw  its  clear  shadow  on  the  stream, 
Or  grove-like  banian  firmly  set, 

Broke  with  its  boughs  the  fiery  gleam  ; 


THE    WIDOWED    BRIDE.  219 

Or  where  a  white  pagoda  shone 

Like  snow-drift  through  the  shadowy  trees  ; 
Or  ancient  mosque  stood  out  alone, 

Where  the  wild  creeper  sought  the  breeze  ; 
Or  where  some  dark  and  gloomy  rock 

Shot  o'er  the  deep  its  ragged  cliffs, 
Inhabited  by  many  a  flock 

Of  vultures,  and  its  yawning  rifts 
Alive  with  lizards,  glowing,  bright, 
As  if  a  prism's  changing  light 
Within  the  gloomy  depths  were  flung, 
Where  like  rich  jewels  newly  strung, 
The  sleeping  serpent  stretched  its  length, 
And  nursed  its  venom  into  strength. 

Where  the  broad  stream  in  shadow  lay, 
The  bridal  barque  kept  on  her  way, 
While  every  breeze  that  swept  them  o'er, 
Brought  loads  of  incense  from  the  shore  : 
Where  each  luxuriant  jungle  lay 

A  wilderness  of  tangled  flowers, 
And  budding  vines  in  wanton  play 

Fell  from  the  trees  in  leafy  showers, 
Flinging  their  graceful  garlands  o'er 
The  rippling  stream  and  reedy  shore ; 
The  lily  bared  its  snowy  breast, 
Swayed  its  full  anthers  like  a  crest, 
And  softly  from  its  pearly  swell, 
A  shower  of  golden  powder  fell 
Among  the  humbler  flowers  that  lay 
And  blushed  their  fragrant  lives  away  ; 
There  oleanders  lightly  wreathed 

Their  blossoms  jn  a  coronal, 
And  the  rich  baubool  softly  breathed 

A  perfume  from  its  golden  bell  ; 
There  flower  and  shrub  and  spicy  tree 
Seemed  struggling  for  sweet  mastery  ; 
And  many  a  bird  with  gorgeous  plume, 
Fluttered  along  the  flowery  gloom, 


THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

Or  on  the  spicy  branches  lay, 
Uttering  a  sleepy  roundelay  ; 
While  insects  rushing  out  like  gems, 

Or  showery  sparks  at  random  flung, 
Through  ripening  fruit  and  slender  stems 

There  to  the  hreathing  blossoms  clung, 
Studded  the  glowing  boughs  and  threw 
O'er  the  broad  bank  a  brilliant  hue. 

On — on  they  went ;  a  fanning  breeze 
Came  sighing  through  the  balmy  trees, 
And  undulating  o'er  the  stream 
Rose  tiny  wavelets,  like  the  gleam 
Of  molten  gold,  and  crested  all 
With  a  bright    trembling  coronal, 
Like  that  which  Brahmins  in  their  dream 
Lavish  upon  the  sacred  stream. 
Then  all  grew  still.     The  sultry  air 
Lay  stagnant  in  the  jungles  there — 
The  sun  poured  down  his  fervent  heat  : 
The  river  lay  a  burnished  sheet ; 
The  floweret  closed  its  withered  bell  ; 
From  the  parched  leaf  the  insect  fell  ; 
The  panting  birds  all  tuneless  clung 
To  the  still  boughs,  where  late  they  sung  ; 
The  dying  blossoms  felt  the  calm, 
And  the  still  air  was  thick  with  balm. 
All  things  grew  faint  in  that  hot  noon, 
As  Nature's  self  lay  in  a  swoon. 

And  she,  that  gentle,  loving  fair, 
How  brooks  her  form  the  sultry  air  1 
Most  patiently — but  see  her  now  ! 
What  fear  convulses  her  pale  brow  ! 
And  why  that  half-averted  eye, 
Watching  his  look  so  anxiously  '? 
The  scarlet  burning  in  his  cheek — 

Those  lips  all  parched  and  motionless  ] 
Oli !  do  they  fell  disease  bespeak  I 

Or  only  simple  weariness  1 


THE    WIDOWED    BRIDE.  221 

One  look  !  the  dreadful  certainty 

Wrings  from  her  heart  a  stifled  cry  ; 
And  now  half  phrensiecl  with  despair, 
She  rends  the  blossoms  from  her  hair, 
And  leaping  to  the  vessel's  side 
She  drenched  them  in  the  sluggish  tide  ; 
Then  to  the  cushions  where  he  lay, 

Senseless  and  fevered  with  disease, 
Panting  his  very  life  away, 

She  rushed,  and  sinking  to  her  knees, 
Raised  softly  up  his  throbbing  head, 

And  pillowed  it  upon  her  breast — 
Then  on  his  burning  forehead  laid 

The  dripping  flowers,  and  wildly  pressed 
Her  pallid  mouth  upon  his  brow, 

And  drew  him  closer  to  her  heart, 
As  if  she  thought  each  trembling  throe 

Could  unto  his,  new  life  impart. 
Wildly  to  his  she  laid  her  cheek, 

And  backward  threw  her  loosened  hair, 
That  not  a  glossy  curl  might  break 

From  off  his  face  the  sluggish  air. 
The  noon  swept  by,  and  there  was  she 

Counting  his  pulses  as  they  rose, 
Striving  with  broken  melody 

To  hush  him  to  a  short  repose, 
Bathing  his  brow  and  twining  still 

Her  fingers  in  his  burning  hand, 
Her  heart's  blood  stopping  with  a  chill 

Whene'er  he  could  not  understand, 
Nor  answer  to  her  gentle  clasp  ; 

But  dashed  that  little  hand  away, 
Or  crushed  it  with  delirious  grasp, 

Entreating  tenderly  her  stay. 
Father  of  heaven !  and  must  he  die  1 
She  breathed  in  her  heart's  agony, 
As  up  with  every  painful  breath, 
Came  to  his  lips  the  foam  of  death, 
And  o'er  his  swollen  forehead  played, 
Like  serpents  by  the  sun  betrayed, 


THE    PORTLAND    S.KKTCH    BOOK. 

Tlic  corded  veins  whose  purple  swell, 
With  his  hot  pulses  rose  and  fell. 

Those  drops  upon  his  temple  there, 
The  rolling  eye,  the  gloomy  hair, 
The  livid  lip,  the  drooping  chin, 
And  the  death-rattle  deep  within, 
That  speechless  one,  so  late  thy  pride — 
There  lies  thy  answer,  widowed  bride ! 

Half  conscious  of  her  misery, 

Like  something  chiselled  o'er  a  grave, 
She  placed  her  small  hand  anxiously 

Upon  the  lifeless  heart,  and  gave 
One  cry — but  one — of  such  despair, 
The  jackall  startled  from  his  lair, 
And  answered  back  that  fearful  knell, 
With  a  long,  sharp  and  hungry  yell. 

A  slow  and  solemn  hour  swept  by, 

And  there,  all  still  and  motionless, 
With  rigid  limb  and  stony  eye, 

The  widow  knelt  in  her  distress. 
With  pitying  looks  the  swarthy  crew 
Around  the  tearless  mourner  drew, 
And  trembling  strove  to  force  away 
From  her  chill  arms  the  senseless  clay. 
Slowly  she  raised  her  awful  head  ; 

A  slight  convulsion  stirr'd  her  face  ; 
Close  to  her  heart  she  snatched  the  dead, 

And  held  him  in  a  strong  embrace  ; 
Then  drawing  o'er  his  brow  her  veil, 

She  turned  her  face  as  strangely  wild, 
As  if  a  fiend  had  mocked  her  wail, 

Parted  her  marble  lips  and  smiled. 
Twice  she  essayed  to  speak,  and  then 
Her  face  drooped  o'er  the  corpse  again, 
While  forth  from  the  disshevelled  hair 
A  husky  whisper  stirred  the  air. 
'  Nay,  bury  him  not  here,'  it  said, 
'  I  would  have  prayers  above  my  dead  ;' 
Then,  one  by  one,  the  timid  crew. 


THE    WIDOWED    BRIDE.  223 

From  the  infected  barge  withdrew  : 
Helmsmen  and  servants,  all  were  gone  ; 
The  wife  was  with  her  dead  alone. 

With  no  propelling  arm  to  guide, 

The  barque  turned  slowly  with  the  tide, 

And  on  the  heavy  current  swept 

Its  slow,  funereal  pathway  back, 
Where  the  expiring  sunbeams  slept, 

Like  gold  along  its  morning  track. 
The  day  threw  out  its  dying  gleam,    . 
Imbuing  with  its  tints  the  stream, 
As  if  the  mighty  river  rolled 
O'er  beds  of  ruby — sands  of  gold. 

As  if  some  seraph  just  had  hung 

In  the  blue  west  his  coronet, 
The  timid  moon  came  out  and  flung 

Her  pearly  smiles  about — then  set, 
As  if  she  feared  the  stars  would  dim 
The  silvery  brightness  of  her  rim  ; 
Then  in  the  blue  and  deepening  skies 
The  stars  sprang  out,  like  glowing  eyes, 
And  on  the  stream  reflected  lay, 
Like  ingots  down  the  watery  way  ; 
And  softly  streamed  the  starry  light 

Down  to  the  wet  and  gloomy  trees, 
Where  fiery  flies  were  flashing  bright, 

Afloat  upon  the  evening  breeze, 
Or  like  some  fairy,  tiny  lamp, 

GlowM  out  among  the  stirring  leaves, 
And  down  among  the  rushes  damp, 

Where  Pestilence  her  vapor  weaves, 
Till  shrub  and  reed,  and  slender  stems, 
Seemed  drooping  with  a  shower  of  gems. 

The  Widow  raised  her  head  once  more, 
Turned  her  still  look  upon  the  sky, 

The  lighted  stream  and  broken  shore  ; 
Oh,  God  !  it  was  a  mockery, 

— The  bridegroom — Death — upon  her  breast 

For  aye  possessing  and  possessed  ! 


THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

With  the  deep  calmness  of  despair, 
The  mourner  raised  his  marble  head, 

And  on  the  silken  cushions  there, 

With  icy  hands,  composed  the  dead  ; 

Then  tore  her  veil  off  for  a  shroud, 

And  in  her  voiceless  mourning  bowed. 

O 

That  holy  sorrow  might  have  awed 

The  very  wind — but  mockingly 
It  flung  his  matted  hair  abroad, 

As  trifling  with  her  agony, 
And  with  a  low  and  moaning  wail 
Bore  on  its  wings  the  bridal  veil ; 
Then  came  a  cold  and  starry  ray, 
And  on  his  marble  forehead  lay. 
Father  of  heaven !  she  could  not  brook 
That  floating  hair,  that  rigid  look. 
With  one  quick  gasp  she  forward  sprung, 
And  to  the  helm  in  frenzy  clung, 
Until  the  barque  shot  on  its  way 
Where  a  dense  shadow  darkest  lay  ; 
And  there,  as  shrouded  with  a  pall, 

The  barge  swept  to  the  very  shore  ; 
The  fell  hyena's  fiendish  call 

Rang  wildly  to  her  ear  once  more, 
And  from  the  deep  dark  solitude 

She  saw  the  hungry  jackall  creep, 
And  whimper  for  his  nightly  food, 

Where  many  a  monster  lay  asleep 
Just  in  the  margin  of  the  flood, 
As  resting  from  a  feast  of  blood. 
Around  the  corpse  the  widow  flung 
Her  snowy  arms,  and  madly  clung 
To  that  cold  bosom,  whence  a  chill 
Shot  through  her  heart,  and  frantic  still 
Her  eyes  in  horror  turned  to  seek 

That  prowling  beast,  whose  hungry  jaws 
Worked  fiercely  and  began  to  reek 

With  eager  foam,  as  with  his  paws 
He  tore  the  turf  impatiently, 
And  howling  snuffed  the  passing  clay. 


THE    WIDOWED    BRIDE.  "225 

It  was  not  that  she  feared  to  die  ; 

In  the  deep  stillness  of  her  heart, 
Her  spirit  prayed  most  fervently 

There  with  the  dead  to  hold  its  part. 
The  only  boon  she  cared  to  crave, 
Was  for  them  both  a  Christian  grave ; 
But  oh !  the  agonizing  thought ! 
That  in  her  madness  she  had  brought 
That  loved  and  lost  one,  for  a  feast, 
To  vulture  and  to  prowling  beast, 
Where  all  things  fierce  and  wild  had  come 
To  howl  a  horrid  requiem. 

But  soon  a  stronger  current  bore 
The  freight  of  death  from  off  the  shore  ; 
Again  the  trembling  starlight  broke 

Above  the  still  and  changing  clay, 
And  with  its  pearly  kisses  woke 

The  widow  from  her  trance,  who  lay 
Convulsed  and  shivering  with  dread, 
Her  white  arms  clinging  to  the  dead  ; 
For  yet  the  stilly  night  wind  bore 
The  wild  beasts'  disappointed  roar. 
Within  the  far  o'erhanging  wood, 

A  bulbul  listening  to  her  heart, 
Poured  forth  upon  the  air  a  flood 

Of  gushing  love  ; — with  lips  apart 
The  widow  clasped  her  trembling  hands, 

And  bent  her  ear  to  catch  the  strain, 
As  if  a  seraph's  low  commands 

Were  breathed  into  her  soul ; — again, 
That  heavenly  sound  came  gushing  out, 
Like  waters  in  their  leaping  shout ; 
Over  her  heart's  deep  frozen  spring 
The  gentle  strain  went  lingering, 
And  touched  each  icy  tear  that  slept 
With  sudden  life,  until  she  wept. 


"226  THE    POIITLAND    SKETCH    BOOK. 

Again  the  lovely  morn  awoke 

Upon  that  temple  still  and  lone  ; 
Its  rosy  bloom  in  gladness  broke, 

And  to  the  holy  altar-stone 
Came  down  subducdly  and  dim, 
Through  painted  glass,  o'er  sculptured  limb : 
Outstretched  within  that  gorgeous  gloom, 
Shaded  by  pall  and  sable  plume, 
As  chisscled  from  the  very  stone, 
The  Bridegroom  lay.     A  broken  moan 
Rose  up  from  where  the  Widow  bowed, 

Her  forehead  buried  in  the  pall, 
Her  fingers  grasping  still  the  shroud, 

And  every  limb  betraying  all 
The  agony  that  wrung  her  heart. 

It  was  a  sad  and  fearful  sight, 
That  lifted  head,  those  lips  apart, 

When  through  the  dim  and  purplish  light 
Those  who  obeyed  the  bridal  call 
Now  gathered  for  the  funeral  ; 
A  soft  and  solemn  strain  awoke 

The  silence  of  that  lofty  dome, 
And  through  the  fretted  arches  broke 

The  music  surging  to  its  home  ; 
Then  with  a  firm  and  heavy  tread 
The  bearers  slowly  raised  the  dead  ; 
She  followed  close,  her  trembling  hand 

Still  clenched  upon  the  gloomy  pall, 
In  snowy  robes  and  pearly  band, 

As  at  her  wedding  festival ; 
And  in  her  bright  disshevellcd  hair 

A  broken  orange-blossom  lay, 
Withered  and  all  entangled  there  ; 

Fit  relic  of  her  bridal  day  ; 
Thus  onward  to  the  tomb  she  passed, 
Her  white  robe  swaying  to  the  blast, 
And  mingling  at  each  stirring  breath 
There  with  the  drapery  of  death. 


JACK  DOWNING'S  VISIT  TO  PORTLAND. 

By  Sebu  Siniih. 

IN  the  fall  of  the  year  1829  I  took  it  into  my  head  I  M 
go  to  Portland.  I  had  heard  a  good  deal  about  Port- 
land, what  a  fine  place  it  was,  and  how  the  folks  got 
rich  there  proper  fast ;  and  that  fall  there  was  a  couple 
of  new  papers  come  up  to  Downingville  from  there, 
called  the  Portland  Courier  and  Family  Reader;  and 
they  told  a  good  many  queer  kind  of  things  about  Port- 
land and  one  thing  another ;  and  all  at  once  it  popped 
into  my  head,  and  I  up  and  told  father,  and  says  I,  I'm 
going  to  Portland  whether  or  no  ;  and  I  '11  see  what 
this  world  is  made  of  yet.  Father  stared  a  little  at 
first,  and  said  he  was  afraid  I  should  get  lost ;  but  when 
he  see  I  was  bent  upon  it,  he  give  it  up  ;  and  he  stepped 
to  his  chist  and  opened  the  till,  and  took  out  a  dollar  and 
gave  to  me,  and  says  he,  Jack,  this  is  all  I  can  do  for 
you  ;  but  go,  and  lead  an  honest  life,  and  I  believe  I  shall 
hear  good  of  you  yet.  He  turned  and  walked  across 
the  room,  but  I  could  see  the  tears  start  into  his  eyes, 
and  mother  sot  down  and  had  a  hearty  crying  spell. 
This  made  me  feel  rather  bad  for  a  minute  or  two, 
and  I  almost  had  a  mind  to  give  it  up ;  and  then  again 
father's  dream  came  into  my  mind,  and  I  mustered  up 
courage,  and  declared  I  'd  go.  So  I  tackled  up  the  old 
horse  and  packed  in  a  load  of  ax  handles  and  a  few 
notions,  and  mother  fried  me  some  dough-nuts  and  put 
'em  into  a  box  along  with  some  cheese  and  sassages, 
and  ropped  me  up  another  shirt,  for  I  told  her  I  did  n't 


228         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

know  how  long  I  should  he  gone  ;  and  after  I  got  all 
rigged  out,  I  went  round  and  bid  all  the  neighbors  good 
bye,  and  jumped  in  and  drove  off  for  Portland. 

Ant  Sally  had  been  married  two  or  three  years  be- 
fore and  moved  to  Portland,  and  I  inquired  round  till  I 
found  out  where  she  lived,  and  went  there  and  put  the 
old  horse  up  and  eat  some  supper  and  went  to  bed. 
And  the  next  morning  I  got  up  and  straightened  right 
off  to  see  the  Editor  of  the  Portland  Courier,  for  I  knew 
by  what  I  had  seen  in  his  paper  that  he  was  just  the 
man  to  tell  me  which  way  to  steer.  And  when  I  come 
to  see  him  I  knew  I  was  right ;  for  soon  as  I  told  him 
my  name  and  what  I  wanted,  he  took  me  by  the  hand 
as  kind  as  if  he  had  been  a  brother  ;  and  says  he,  Mr. 
Downing,  I  '11  do  any  thing  I  can  to  assist  you.  You 
have  come  to  a  good  town  ;  Portland  is  a  healthy  thriv- 
ing place,  and  any  man  with  a  proper  degree  of  enter- 
prise may  do  well  here.  But  says  he,  Mr.  Downing, 
and  he  looked  mighty  kind  of  knowing,  says  he,  if  you 
want  to  make  out  to  your  mind,  you  must  do  as  the 
steamboats  do.  Well,  says  I,  how  do  they  do'l  for  I 
did  n't  know  what  a  steam  boat  was,  any  more  than 
the  man  in  the  moon.  Why,  says  he,  they  go  ahead. 
And  you  must  drive  about  among  the  folks  here  jest 
as  though  you  were  at  home  on  the  farm  among  the 
cattle.  Dont  be  afraid  of  any  of  'cm,  but  figure  away, 
and  I  dare  say  you  will  get  into  good  business  in  a  very 
little  while.  But,  says  he,  there  's  one  thing  you  must 
be  careful  of,  and  that  is  not  to  get  into  the  hands  of 
them  are  folks  that  trades  up  round  Huckler's  Row  : 
for  there  's  some  sharpers  up  there,  if  they  get  hold  of 
you,  would  twist  your  eye  teeth  out  in  five  minutes. 
Well  after  he  had  gin  me  all  the  good  advice  he  could 


JACK  DOAVNIXG'S  VISIT  TO  PORTLAND.        229 

I  went  back  to  Ant  Sally's  again  and  got  some  break- 
fast, and  then  I  walked  all  over  the  town  to  see  what 
chance  I  could  find  to  sell  my  ax  handles  and  things, 
and  to  get  into  business. 

After  I  had  walked  about  three  or  four  hours  I  come 
along  towards  the  upper  end  of  the  town  where  I  found 
there  were  stores  and  shops  of  all  sorts  and  sizes.  And 
I  met  a  feller,  and  says  I,  what  place  is  this  1  Why 
this  says  he,  is  Huckler's  Row.  What,  says  I,  are 
these  the  stores  where  the  traders  in  Huckler's  Row 
keep  1  And  says  he,  yes.  Well  then,  thinks  I  to  my- 
self, I  have  a  pesky  good  mind  to  go  in  and  have  a  try 
with  one  of  these  chaps,  and  see  if  they  can  twist  my 
eye  teeth  out.  If  they  can  get  the  best  end  of  a  bar- 
gain out  of  me,  they  can  do  what  there  aint  a  man  in 
Downingville  can  do,  and  I  should  jest  like  to  know 
what  sort  of  stuff  these  ere  Portland  chaps  are  made  of. 
So  in  I  goes  into  the  best  looking  store  among  'em. 
And  I  see  some  biscuit  lying  on  the  shelf,  and  says  I, 
Mister,  how  much  do  you  ax  apiece  for  them  are  bis- 
cuit 1  A  cent  apiece,  says  he.  Well,  says  I,  I  shant 
give  you  that,  but  if  you  've  a  mind  to,  I  '11  give  you 
two  cents  for  three  of  'em,  for  I  begin  to  feel  a  little  as 
though  I  should  like  to  take  a  bite.  Well,  says  he>I 
would  n't  sell  'em  to  any  body  else  so,  but  seeing  it  's 
you  I  dont  care  if  you  take  'em.  I  knew  he  lied,  for 
he  never  see  me  before  in  his  life.  Well  he  handed 
down  the  biscuits  and  I  took  'em,  and  walked  round  the 
store  awhile  to  see  what  else  he  had  to  sell.  At  last, 
says  I,  Mister,  have  you  got  any  good  new  cider  T 
Says  he,  yes,  as  good  as  ever  you  see.  Well,  says  I, 
what  do  you  ax  a  glass  for  it!  Two  cents,  says  he. 
Well,  says  I,  seems  to  me  I  feel  more  dry  than  I  do 
20* 


230         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

hungry  now.  Aint  you  a  mind  to  take  these  ere  biscuit 
again  and  give  me  a  glass  of  cider  1  And  says  he,  1 
dont  care  if  I  do  ;  so  he  took  and  laid  'em  on  the  shelf 
again,  and  poured  out  a  glass  of  cider.  I  took  the 
cider  and  drinkt  it  down,  and  to  tell  the  truth  it  was 
capital  good  cider.  Then,  says  I,  I  guess  it's  time  fur 
me  to  be  a  going,  and  I  stept  along  towards  the  door. 
But,  says  he,  stop  Mister.  I  believe  you  have  'nt  paid 
me  for  the  cider.  Not  paid  you  for  the  cider,  says  I, 
what  do  you  mean  by  that  I  Did  n't  the  biscuit  that  I 
give  you  jest  come  to  the  cider  1  Oh.  ah,  right,  says 
he.  So  I  started  to  go  again  ;  and  says  he,  but  stop, 
Mister,  you  did  n't  pay  me  for  the  biscuit.  What,  says 
I,  do  you  mean  to  impose  upon  me  T  do  you  think  I  am 
going  to  pay  you  for  the  buiscuit  and  let  you  keep  'em 
tu  1  Aint  they  there  now  on  your  shelf,  what  more  do 
you  want  1  T  guess  sir,  you  dont  whittle  me  in  that 
way.  So  1  turned  about  and  marched  off,  and  left  the 
feller  staring  and  thinking  and  scratching  his  head,  as 
though  he  was  struck  with  a  dunderment.  Howsom- 
ever,  I  did  n't  want  to  cheat  him,  only  jest  to  show  'cm 
it  want  so  easy  a  matter  to  pull  my  eye  teeth  out,  so  I 
called  in  next  day  and  paid  him  his  two  cents.  Well 
I  staid  at  Ant  Sally's  a  week  or  two,  and  I  went  about 
town  every  day  to  see  what  chance  I  could  find  to  trade 
off  my  ax  handles,  or  hire  out,  or  find  some  way  or 
other  to  begin  to  seek  my  fortune. 

And  I  must  confess  the  editor  of  the  Courier  was 
about  right  in  calling  Portland  a  pretty  good  thriving 
sort  of  a  place  ;  every  body  seemed  to  be  as  busy  as 
so  many  bees ;  and  the  masts  of  the  vessels  stuck  up 
round  the  wharves  as  thick  as  pine  trees  in  uncle 
Joshua's  pasture  ;  and  the  stores  and  the  shops  were  so 


PORTLAND    AS    IT    WAS.  231 

thick,  it  seemed  as  if  there  was  no  end  to  'em.  In 
short,  although  I  have  been  round  the  \vorld  considera- 
ble, from  that  time  to  this,  all  the  way  from  Madawas- 
ka  to  Washington,  I  've  never  seen  any  place  yet  that 
I  think  has  any  business  to  grin  at  Portland. 


PORTLAND  AS  IT  WAS. 

By     William    Willis.         ' 

THE  advantages  which  in  early  days  our  now  country 
held  out  for  employment,  encouraged  immigration,  and 
the  population  was  almost  wholly  made  up  by  acces- 
sions from  the  more  thickly  peopled  parts  of  Massachu- 
setts. To  the  county  of  Essex  particularly,  in  the 
early  as  well  as  more  recent  period  of  our  history,  the 
town  is  indebted  for  large  portions  of  its  population. 
Middlesex,  Suffolk  and  the  Old  Colony,  were  not  with- 
out their  contributions.  But  the  people  did  not  come 
from  such  widely  different  sources  as  to  produce  any 
difficulty  of  amalgamation,  or  any  striking  diversity  of 
manners.  They  formed  one  people  and  brought  with 
them  the  steady  habits  and  good  principles  of  those 
from  whom  they  had  separated.  There  were  some 
accessions  before  the  revolution  made  to  our  popula- 
tion from  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic  ;  the  emigrants 
readily  incorporated  themselves  with  our  people  and 
form  a  substantial  part  of  the  population.  Within 
twenty  years,  the  numbers  by  immigration  have  in- 
creased more  rapidly,  especially  from  Ireland,  but  not 


232         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

sufficiently  to  destroy  the  uniformity  which  characteri- 
ses our  population,  nor  to  disturb  the  harmony  of  our 
community. 

It  cannot  have  escaped  observation  that  one  of  the 
principal  sources  of  our  wealth  has  been  the  lumber 
trade.  We  have  seen  on  the  revival  of  the  town  in  the 
early  part  of  the  last  century,  how  intimately  the  pro- 
gress of  the  town  was  connected  with  operations  in 
timber.  Before  the  revolution  our  commerce  was 
sustained  almost  wholly  by  the  large  ships  from  Eng- 
land which  loaded  here  with  masts,  spars,  and  boards 
for  the  mother  country,  and  by  ship  building.  The 
West  India  business  was  then  comparatively  small, 
employing  but  few  vessels  of  inferior  size.  After  the 
revolution  our  trade  had  to  form  new  channels,  and  the 
employment  of  our  own  navigation  was  to  give  new 
activity  to  all  the  springs  of  industry  and  wealth.  We 
find  therefore  that  the  enterprise  of  the  people  arose  to 
the  emergency,  and  in  a  few  years  our  ships  were 
floating  on  every  ocean,  becoming  the  carriers  of 
southern  as  well  as  northern  produce,  and  bringing 
back  the  money  and  commodities  of  other  countries. 
The  trade  to  the  West  Indies,  supported  by  our  lumber, 
increased  vastly,  and  direct  voyages  were  made  in 
larger  vessels  than  had  before  been  employed,  which 
received  in  exchange  for  the  growth  of  our  forests  and 
our  seas,  sugar,  molasses  and  rum,  the  triple  products 
of  the  cane.  This  trade  has  contributed  mainly  to  the 
advancement  and  prosperity  of  the  town,  has  nourished 
a  hardy  race  of  seamen,  and  formed  a  people  among 
the  most  active  and  enterprising  of  any  in  the  United 
States. 

The  great  changes  which  have  taken  place  in  the 


PORTLAND    AT    IT    WAS.  233 

customs  and  manners  of  society  since  the  revolution, 
must  deeply  impress  the  mind  of  a  reflecting  observer. 
These  have  extended  not  only  to  the  outward  forms  of 
things,  but  to  the  habits  of  thought  and  to  the  very 
principles  of  character.  The  moral  revolution  has 
been  as  signal  and  striking  as  the  political  one  ;  it  up- 
turned the  old  land  marks  of  antiquated  and  hereditary 
customs  and  the  obedience  to  mere  authority,  and 
established  in  their  stead  a  more  simple  and  just  rule 
of  action ;  it  set  up  reason  and  common  sense,  and  a 
true  equality  in  the  place  of  a  factitious  and  conven- 
tional state  of  society  which  unrelentingly  required  a 
submission  to  its  stern  dictates  ;  which  made  an  unnat- 
ural distinction  in  moral  power,  and  elevated  the  rich 
knave  or  fool  to  the  station  that  humble  and  despised 
merit  would  have  better  graced. 

These  peculiarities  have  been  destroyed  by  the 
silent  and  gradual  operation  of  public  opinion ;  the 
spirit  which  arose  in  the  new  world  is  spreading  with 
the  same  effect  over  the  old.  Freedom  of  opinion  is 
asserting  a  just  sway,  and  it  is  only  now  to  be  feared 
that  the  principle  will  be  carried  too  far,  that  authority 
will  lose  all  its  influence  and  that  reason  and  a  just  esti- 
mate of  human  rights  will  not  be  sufficient  restraints 
upon  the  passions  of  men.  The  experiment  is  going 
on,  and  unless  education,  an  early  and  sound  moral 
education  go  on  with  it,  which  will  enlighten  and 
strengthen  the  public  mind,  it  will  fail  of  success.  The 
feelings  and  passions  must  be  placed  under  the  charge 
of  moral  principle,  or  we  may  expect  an  age  of  licen- 
tiousness to  succeed  one  of  authority  and  rigid  disci- 
pline. We  may  be  said  now  to  be  in  the  transition 
state  of  society. 

Distinctions  of  rank  among  different  classes  of  the 


234         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

community,  a  part  of  the  old  system,  prevailed  very 
much  before  the  revolution  and  were  preserved  in  the 
dress  as  well  as  in  the  forms  of  society.  But  the  def- 
erence attached  to  robes  of  office  and  the  formality  of 
official  station  have  all  fled  before  the  genius  of  our 
republican  institutions  ;  we  look  now  upon  the  man  and 
not  upon  his  garments  nor  upon  the  post  to  which 
chance  may  have  elevated  him.  In  the  circle  of  our 
little  town,  the  lines  were  drawn  with  much  strictness. 
The  higher  classes  were  called  the  quality,  and  were 
composed  of  persons  not  engaged  in  mechanic  employ- 
ments. We  now  occasionally  find  some  old  persons 
whose  memory  recurs  with  longing  delight  to  the  days 
in  which  these  formal  distinctions  held  uncontrolled 
sway. 

The  fashionable  color  of  clothes  among  this  class 
was  drab  ;  the  coats  were  made  with  large  cuffs  reach- 
ing to  the  elbows,  and  low  collars.  All  classes  wore 
breeches  which  had  not  the  advantage  of  being  kept 
up  as  in  modern  times  by  suspenders  ;  the  dandies  of 
that  day  wore  embroidered  silk  vests  with  long  pocket 
flaps  and  ruffles  over  their  hands.  Most  of  those  above 
mentioned  were  engaged  in  trade,  and  the  means  of 
none  were  sufficiently  ample  to  enable  them  to  live 
without  engaging  in  some  employment.  Still  the  pride 
of  their  cast  was  maintained,  and  although  the  cloak 
arid  perhaps  the  wig  may  have  been  laid  aside  in  the 
dust  and  hurry  of  business,  they  were  scrupulously 
rctained  when  abroad. 

There  were  many  other  expensive  customs  in  that 
day  to  which  the  spirit  of  the  age  required  implicit 
obedience  ;  these  demanded  costly  presents  to  be  made 
and  large  expenses  to  be  incurred  at  the  three  most 
important  events  in  the  history  of  man,  his  birth,  mar- 


PORTLAND    AS    IT    WAS.  235 

riago  and  death.  In  the  latter  it  became  particularly 
onerous  and  extended  the  influence  of  its  example  to 
the  poorest  classes  of  people,  who  in  their  show  of 
grief,  imitated,  though  at  an  immeasurable  distance, 
the  customs  of  the  rich. 

The  leaders  of  the  people  in  the  early  part  of  the 
revolution,  with  a  view  to  check  importations  from 
Britain,  aimed  a  blow  at  these  expensive  customs,  from 
which  they  never  recovered.  The  example  commen- 
ced in  the  highest  places,  of  an  entire  abandonment  of 
all  the  outward  trappings  of  grief  which  had  been  wont 
to  be  displayed,  and  of  all  luxury  in  dress,  which 
extended  over  the  whole  community.  In  the  later 
stages  of  the  revolution  however,  an  extravagant  and 
luxurious  style  of  living  and  dress  was  revived,  encour- 
aged by  the  large  amount  both  of  specie  and  paper 
money  in  circulation,  and  the  great  quantity  of  foreign 
articles  of  luxury  brought  into  the  country  by  numerous 
captures. 

The  evils  here  noticed  did  not  exist  in  this  part  of 
the  country  in  any  considerable  degree,  especially 
after  the  revolution  ;  the  people  were  too  poor  to  in- 
dulge in  an  expensive  style  of  living.  They  were  lit- 
erally a  working  people,  property  had  not  descended 
upon  them  from  a  rich  ancestry,  but  whatever  they 
had  accumulated  had  been  the  result  of  their  own  in- 
dustry and  economy.  Our  ladies  too  at  that  period 
had  not  forgotten  the  use  of  the  distaff,  and  occasion- 
ally employed  that  antiquated  instrument  of  domestic 
labor  for  the  benefit  of  others  as  well  as  of  themselves. 
The  following  notice  of  a  spinning  bee  at  Mrs.  Deane's 
on  the  first  of  May  1788,  is  a  flattering  memorial  of 
the  industry  and  skill  of  the  females  of  our  town  at 
that  period. 


236         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

"  On  the  first  instant,  assembled  at  the  house  of  the 
Rev.  Samuel  Deane  of  this  town,  more  than  one  hun- 
dred of  the  fair  sex,  married  and  single  ladies,  most  of 
whom  were  skilled  in  the  important  art  of  spinning. 
An  emulous  industry  was  never  more  apparent  than 
in  this  beautiful  assembly.  The  majority  of  fair  hands 
gave  motion  to  not  less  than  sixty  wheels.  Many  were 
occupied  in  preparing  the  materials,  besides  those  who 
attended  to  the  entertainment  of  the  rest,  provision  for 
which  was  mostly  presented  by  the  guests  themselves, 
or  sent  in  by  other  generous  promoters  of  the  exhibi- 
tion, as  were  also  the  materials  for  the  work.  Near 
the  close  of  the  day,  Mrs.  Dcanc  was  presented  by  the 
company  with  two  hundred  and  thirty-six  seven  knot- 
ted skeins  of  excellent  cotton  and  linen  yarn,  the  work 
of  the  day,  excepting  about  a  dozen  skeins  which 
some  of  the  company  brought  in  ready  spun.  Some 
had  spun  six,  and  many  not  less  than  five  skeins  apiece. 
To  conclude  and  crown  the  day,  a  numerous  band  of 
the  best  singers  attended  in  the  evening,  and  performed 
an  agreeable  variety  of  excellent  pieces  in  psalmody." 

Some  of  the  ante-revolutionary  customs  "  more  hon- 
ored in  the  breach  than  in  the  observance " — have 
been  continued  quite  to  our  day,  although  not  precisely 
in  the  same  manner,  nor  in  equal  degree.  One  was 
the  practise  of  helping  forward  every  undertaking  by  a 
deluge  of  ardent  spirit  in  some  of  its  multifarious  mis- 
tifications.  Nothing  could  be  done  from  the  burial  of 
a  friend  or  the  quiet  sessions  of  a  town  committee  ;  to 
the  raising  of  the  frame  of  a  barn  or  a  meeting-house, 
but  the  men  must  be  goaded  on  by  the  stimulus  of  rum. 
Flip  and  punch  were  then  the  indispensible  accompa- 
niments of  every  social  meeting  and  of  every  enterprise. 


PORTLAND   AS    IT    WAS.  237 

It  is  not  a  great  while  since  similar  customs  have 
extensively  prevailed  not  perhaps  in  precisely  the  in- 
stances or  degree  above  mentioned,  but  in  junkettings, 
and  other  meetings  which  have  substituted  whiskey 
punch,  toddy,  &c.  for  the  soothing  but  pernicious  com- 
pounds of  our  fathers.  Thanks  however  to  the  genius 
of  temperance,  a  redeeming  spirit  is  abroad,  which  it  is 
hoped  will  save  the  country  from  the  destruction  that 
seemed  to  threaten  it  from  this  source. 

The  amusements  of  our  people  in  early  days  had 
nothing  particular  to  distinguish  them.  The  winter 
was  generally  a  merry  season,  and  the  snow  was  al- 
ways improved  for  sleighing  parties  out  of  town.  In 
summer  the  badness  of  the  roads  prevented  all  riding 
for  pleasure  ;  in  that  season  the  inhabitants  indulged 
themselves  in  water  parties,  fishing  and  visiting  the 
islands,  a  recreation  that  has  lost  none  of  its  relish  at 
this  day. 

Dancing  does  not  seem  to  have  met  with  much 
favor,  for  we  find  upon  record  in  1766,  that  Theophilus 
Bradbury  and  wife,  Nathaniel  Deering  and  wife,  John 
Waite  and  wife,  and  several  other  of  the  most  respect- 
able people  in  town  were  indicted  for  dancing  at  Joshua 
Freeman's  tavern  in  December  1765.  Mr.  Bradbu- 
ry brought  himself  and  friends  off  by  pleading  that 
the  room  in  which  the  dance  took  place,  having  been 
hired  by  private  individuals  for  the  season,  was  no 
longer  to  be  considered  as  a  public  place  of  resort,  but 
a  private  apartment,  and  that  the  persons  there  assem- 
bled had  a  right  to  meet  in  their  own  room  and  to 
dance  there.  The  court  sustained  the  plea.  David 
Wyer  was  king's  attorney  at  this  time. 

It  was  common  for  clubs  and  social  parties  to  meet 
21 


238         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

at  the  tavern  in  those  days,  and  Mrs.  Grecle's  in  Back- 
street was  a  place  of  most  fashionable  resort  both  for 
old  and  young  wags,  before  as  well  as  after  the  revo- 
lution. It  was  the  Easlcheap  of  Portland,  and  was  as 
famous  for  baked  leans  as  the  "  Boar's  head  "  was  for 
sack,  although  we  would  by  no  means  compare  honest 
Dame  Grecle,  with  the  more  celebrated,  though  less 
deserving  hostess  of  Falstaff  and  Poins.  Many  persons 
are  now  living  on  whose  heads  the  frosts  of  age  have 
extinguished  the  fires  of  youth,  who  love  to  recur  to 
the  amusing  scenes  and  incidents  associated  with  that 
house. 

When  we  look  back  a  space  of  just  two  hundred 
years  and  compare  our  present  situation,  surrounded 
by  all  the  beauty  of  civilization  and  intelligence,  with 
the  cheerless  prospect  which  awaited  the  European 
settler,  whose  voice  first  startled  the  stillness  of  the 
forest  ;  or  if  we  look  back  but  one  hundred  years  to 
the  humble  beginnings  of  the  second  race  of  settlers, 
who  undertook  the  task  of  reviving  the  waste  places  of 
this  wilderness,  and  suffered  all  the  privations  and  hard- 
ships which  the  pioneers  in  the  march  of  civilization 
are  called  upon  to  endure  ;  or  if  we  take  a  nearer  point 
for  comparison,  and  view  the  blackened  ruin  of  our 
village  at  the  close  of  the  revolutionary  war,  and  esti- 
mate the  proud  pre-eminence  over  all  those  periods 
which  we  now  enjoy,  in  our  civil  relations  and  in  the 
means  of  social  happiness,  our  hearts  should  swell  with 
gratitude  to  the  Author  of  all  good  that  these  high 
privileges  are  granted  to  us  ;  and  we  should  resolve 
that  we  will  individually  and  as  a  community  sustain 
the  purity  and  moral  tone  of  our  institutions,  and  leave 
them  unimpaired  to  posterity. 


THE  CHEROKEE'S  THREAT. 


Bv    N.    P.     Willis. 


AT  the  extremity  of  a  green  lane  in  the  outer  skirt  of 
the  fashionable  suburb  of  New-Haven,  stood  a  ram- 
bling old  Dutch  house,  built,  probably,  when  the  cattle 
of  Mynheer  grazed  over  the  present  site  of  the  town. 
It  was  a  wilderness  of  irregular  rooms,  of  no  dcscriba- 
ble  shape  in  its  exterior,  and  from  its  southern  balcony, 
to  use  an  expressive  gallicism,  gave  upon  the  bay. 
Long  Island  sound,  the  great  highway  from  the  north- 
ern Atlantic  to  New  York,  weltered  in  alternate  lead 
and  silver  (oftener  like  the  brighter  metal,  for  the  cli- 
mate is  divine)  between  the  curving  lip  of  the  bay, 
and  the  interminable  and  sandy  shore  of  the  island 
some  six  leagues  distant,  the  procession  of  ships  and 
steamers  stole  past  with  an  imperceptible  progress,  the 
ceaseless  bells  of  the  college  chapel  came  deadened 
through  the  trees  from  behind,  and  (the  day  being  one 
of  golden  Autumn,  and  myself  and  St.  John  waiting 
while  black  Agatha  answered  the  door-bell)  the  sun- 
steeped  precipice  of  East  Rock  with  its  tiara  of  blood- 
red  maples  flushing  like  a  Turk's  banner  in  the  light, 
drew  from  us  both  a  truant  wish  for  a  ramble  and  a 
holiday. 

In  a  few  minutes  from  this  time  were  assembled  in 
Mrs.  Ilfrington's  drawing-room  the  six  or  seven  young 
ladies  of  my  more  particular  acquaintance  among  her 
pupils— of  whom  one  was  a  new-comer,  and  the  object 
of  my  mingled  curiosity  and  admiration.  It  was  the 


240         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

one  day  of  the  week  when  morning  visitors  were  ad- 
mitted, and  I  was  there  in  compliance  with  an  unex- 
pected request  from  my  friend,  to  present  him  to  the 
agreeable  circle  of  Mrs.  Ilfrington.  As  an  habitue  in 
her  family,  this  excellent  lady  had  taken  occasion  to 
introduce  to  me  a  week  or  two  before,  the  new-comer 
of  whom  I  have  spoken  above — a  departure  from  the 
ordinary  rule  of  the  establishment,  which  I  felt  to  be  a 
compliment,  and  which  gave  me,  I  presumed,  a  tacit 
claim  to  mix  myself  up  in  that  young  lady's  destiny  as 
deeply  as  I  should  find  agreeable.  The  new-comer 
was  the  daughter  of  an  Indian  chief,  and  her  name 
was  Nunu. 

The  transmission  of  the  daughter  of  a  Cherokee 
chief  to  New-Haven,  to  be  educated  at  the  expense  of 
the  government,  and  of  several  young  men  of  the  same 
high  birth  to  different  colleges,  will  be  recorded  among 
the  evidences  in  history  that  we  did  no!  plough  the 
bones  of  their  fathers  into  our  fields  without  some  feel- 
ings of  compunction.  Nunu  had  come  to  the  seaboard 
under  the  charge  of  a  female  missionary,  whose  pupil 
she  had  heen  in  one  of  the  native  schools  of  the  west, 
and  was  destined,  though  a  chief's  daughter,  to  return 
as  a  teacher  to  her  tribe,  when  she  should  have  master- 
ed some  of  the  higher  accomplishments  of  her  sex. 
She  was  an  apt  scholar,  but  her  settled  melancholy 
when  away  from  her  books,  had  determined  Mrs.  Il- 
frington to  try  the  effect  of  a  little  society  upon  her, 
and  hence  my  privilege  to  ask  for  her  appearance  in 
the  drawing-room. 

As  we  strolled  down  in  the  alternate  shade  and  sun- 
shine of  the  road,  I  had  been  a  little  piqued  at  the 
want  of  interest  and  the  manner  of  course  with  which 


THE  CHEROKEE'S  THREAT.  241 

St.  John  had  received  my  animated  descriptions  of  the 
personal  beauty  of  the  Cherokee. 

"  I  have  hunted  with  the  tribe,"  was  his  only  an- 
swer, "  and  know  their  features." 

"  But  she  is  not  like  them,"  I  replied  with  a  tone  of 
some  impatience  ;  "  she  is  the  beau-ideal  of  a  red  skin, 
but  it  is  with  the  softened  features  of  an  Arab  or  an 
Egyptian.  She  is  more  willowy  than  erect,  and  has 
no  higher  cheek-bones  than  the  plaster  Venus  in  your 
chambers.  If  it  were  not  for  the  lambent  fire  in  her 
eye,  you  might  take  her  in  the  sculptured  grace  of  her 
attitudes,  for  an  immortal  bronze  of  Cleopatra.  I  tell 
you  she  is  divine  !  " 

St.  John  called  to  his  dog  and  we  turned  along  the 
green  bank  above  the  beach,  with  Mrs.  Ilfrington's 
house  in  view,  and  so  opens  a  new  chapter  of  my  story. 

I  have  seen  in  many  years  wandering  over  the  world, 
lived  to  gaze  upon,  and  live  to  remember  and  adore — 
a  constellation,  I  almost  believe,  that  has  absorbed  all 
the  intensest  light  of  the  beauty  of  a  hemisphere — yet 
with  your  pictures  coloured  to  life  in  my  memory,  and 
the  pride  of  rank  and  state  thrown  over  them  like  an 
elevating  charm — I  go  back  to  the  school  of  Mrs.  II- 
frington,  and  (smile  if  you  will !)  they  were  as  lovely 
and  stately,  and  as  worthy  of  the  worship  of  the  world. 

I  introduced  St.  John  to  the  young  ladies  as  they 
came  in.  Having  never  seen  him  except  in  the  pres- 
ence of  men,  I  was  a  little  curious  to  know  whether 
his  singular  aplomb  would  serve  him  as  well  with  the 
other  sex,  of  which  I  was  aware  he  had  had  a  very 
slender  experience.  My  attention  was  distracted  at 
the  moment  of  mentioning  his  name  to  a  lovely  little 
21* 


242          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

Georgian,  (with  eyes  full  of  the  liquid  sunshine  of  the 
south,)  by  a  sudden  bark  of  joy  from  the  dog  who  had 
been  left  in  the  hall ;  and  as  the  door  opened,  and  the 
slight  and  graceful  Indian  girl  entered  the  room,  the 
usually  unsocial  animal  sprung  bounding  in,  lavishing 
caresses  on  her,  and  seemingly  wild  with  the  delight 
of  recognition. 

In  the  confusion  of  taking  the  dog  from  the  room,  I 
had  again  lost  the  moment  of  remarking  St.  John's 
manner,  and  on  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Ilfrington,  Nunu 
was  sitting  calmly  by  the  piano,  and  my  friend  was 
talking  in  a  quiet  undertone  with  the  passionate  Geor- 
gian. 

"•  I  must  apologise  for  my  dog,"  said  St.  John,  bow- 
ing gracefully  to  the  mistress  of  the  house ;  "  he  was 
bred  by  Indians,  and  the  sight  of  a  Cherokee  reminded 
him  of  happier  days — as  it  did  his  master." 

Nunu  turned  her  eyes  quickly  upon  him,  but  imme- 
diately resumed  her  apparently  deep  study  of  the  ab- 
struse figures  in  the  Kidderminster  carpet. 

"  You  are  well  arrived,  young  gentlemen,"  said 
Mrs.  Ilfrington  ;  "  we  press  you  into  our  service  for  a 
botanical  ramble,  Mr.  Slingsby  is  at  leisure,  and  will  be 
delighted  I  am  sure.  Shall  I  say  as  much  for  you, 
Mr.  St.  John!"  St.  John  bowed,  and  the  ladies  left 
the  room  for  their  bonnets,  Mrs.  Ilfrington  last. 

The  door  was  scarcely  closed  when  Nunu  re-appear- 
ed, and  checking  herself  with  a  sudden  feeling  at  the 
first  step  over  the  threshold,  stood  gazing  at  St.  John, 
evidently  under  very  powerful  emotion. 

4t  Nunu  !  "  he  said,  smiling  slowly  and  unwillingly  ? 
and  holding  out  his  hands  with  the  air  of  one  who  for- 
gives an  offence. 

She  sprang  upon  his  bosom  with  the  bound  of  a  lev- 


THE  CHEROKEE'S  THREAT.  243 

cret,  and,  between  her  fast  kisses  broke  the  endearing 
epithets  of  her  native  tongue — in  words  that  I  only  un- 
derstood by  their  passionate  and  thrilling  accent.  The 
language  of  the  heart  is  universal. 

The  fair  scholars  came  in  one  after  another,  and  we 
were  soon  on  our  way  through  the  green  fields  to  the 
flowery  mountain  side  of  East  Rock,  Mrs.  Ilfrington's 
arm  and  conversation  having  fallen  to  my  share,  and 
St.  John  rambling  at  large  with  the  rest  of  the  party, 
but  more  particularly  beset  by  Miss  Temple,  whose 
Christian  name  was  Isabella,  and  whose  Christian  cha- 
rity had  no  bowels  for  broken  hearts. 

The  most  sociable  individuals  of  the  party  for  a 
while  were  Nunu  and  Last,  the  dog's  recollections  of 
the  past  seeming,  like  those  of  wiser  animals,  more 
agreeable  than  the  present.  The  Cherokee  astonished 
Mrs.  Ilfrington  by  an  abandonment  of  joy  and  frolic 
which  she  had  never  displayed  before,  sometimes  fair- 
ly outrunning  the  dog  at  full  speed,  and  sometimes  sit- 
ting down  breathless  upon  a  green  bank,  while  the 
rude  creature  overpowered  her  with  his  caresses.  The 
scene  gave  rise  to  a  grave  discussion  between  that  wcll- 
iastructed  lady  and  myself  upon  the  singular  force  of 
childish  association — the  extraordinary  intimacy  be- 
tween the  Indian  and  the  trapper's  dog  being  explained 
satisfactorily,  to  her  at  least,  on  that  attractive  princi- 
ple. Had  she  but  seen  Nunu  spring  into  the  bosom  of 
my  friend  half  an  hour  before,  she  might  have  added  a 
material  corollary  to  her  proposition.  If  the  dog  and 
the  chief's  daughter  were  not  old  friends,  the  chief's 
daughter  and  St.  John  certainly  were  ! 

As  well  as  I  could  judge  by  the  motions  of  two  peo- 
ple walking  before  me,  St.  John  was  advancing  fast 


244         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

in  the  favor  and  acquaintance  of  the  graceful  Georgian. 
Her  southern  indolence  was  probably  an  apology  in 
Mrs.  Ilfrington's  eyes  for  leaning  heavily  on  her  com- 
panion's arm,  but,  in  a  momentary  halt,  the  capricious 
beauty  disembarrassed  herself  of  the  light  scarf  that 
had  floated  over  her  shoulders,  and  bound  it  playfully 
around  his  waist.  This  was  rather  strange  on  a  lirst 
acquaintance,  and  Mrs.  Ilfrington  was  of  that  opinion. 

"  Miss  Temple  !  "  said  she,  advancing  to  whisper  a 
reproof  in  the  beauty's  ear. 

Before  she  had  taken  a  second  step,  Nunu  bounded 
over  the  low  hedge,  followed  by  the  dog  with  whom 
she  had  been  chasing  a  butterfly,  and  springing  upon 
St.  John,  with  eyes  that  flashed  fire,  she  tore  the  scarf 
into  shreds,  and  stood  trembling  and  pale,  with  her  feet 
on  the  silken  fragments. 

"  Madam  !  "  said  St.  John,  advancing  to  Mrs.  Ilfring- 
ton, after  casting  on  the  Cherokee  a  look  of  surprise 
and  displeasure,  "  I  should  have  told  you  before,  that 
your  pupil  and  myself  arc  not  new  acquaintances. 
Her  father  is  my  friend.  I  have  hunted  with  the  tribe, 
and  have  hitherto  looked  upon  Nunu  as  a  child.  You 
will  believe  me,  I  trust,  when  I  say,  her  conduct  sur- 
prises me,  and  I  beg  to  assure  you,  that  any  influence 
I  may  have  over  her,  will  be  in  accordance  with  your 
own  wishes  exclusively." 

His  tone  was  cold,  and  Nunu  listened  with  fixed  lips 
and  frowning  eyes. 

"Have  you  seen  her  before  since  her  arrival1)" 
asked  Mrs.  Ilfrington. 

"  My  dog  brought  me  yesterday  the  first  intelligence 
that  she  was  here.  He  returned  from  his  morning 
ramble  with  a  string  of  wampum  about  his  neck,  which 


THE  CHEROKEE'S  THREAT.  245 

had  the  mark  of  the  tribe.  He  was  her  gift,"  he  ad- 
ded, patting  the  head  of  the  dog  and  looking  with  a 
softened  expression  at  Nunu,  who  drooped  her  head 
upon  her  bosom  and  walked  on  in  tears. 

The  chain  of  the  Green  Mountains,  after  a  gallop  of 
some  five  hundred  miles  from  Canada  to  Connecticut, 
suddenly  pulls  up  on  the  shore  of  Long  Island  Sound, 
and  stands  rearing  with  a  bristling  mane  of  pine-trees, 
three  hundred  feet  in  air,  as  if  checked  in  midcareer 
by  the  sea.  Standing  on  the  brink  of  this  bold  preci- 
pice, you  have  the  bald  face  of  the  rock  in  a  sheer 
perpendicular  below  you  ;  and,  spreading  away  from 
the  broken  masses  at  its  foot,  lies  an  emerald  meadow 
inlaid  with  a  crystal  and  rambling  river,  across  which, 
at  a  distance  of  a  mile  or  two,  rise  the  spires  of  the 
university  from  what  else  were  a  thick  serried  wilder- 
ness of  elms.  Back  from  the  edge  of  the  precipice 
extends  a  wild  forest  of  hemlock  and  fir,  ploughed  on 
its  northern  side  by  a  mountain  torrent,  whose  bed  of 
marl,  dry  and  overhung  with  trees  in  the  summer, 
serves  as  a  path  and  guide  from  the  plain  to  the  sum- 
mit. It  were  a  toilsome  ascent  but  for  that  smooth 
and  hard  pavement,  and  the  impervious  and  green 
thatch  of  pine-tassels  overhung. 

The  kind  mistress  ascended  with  the  assistance  of 
my  arm,  and  St.  John  drew  stoutly  between  Miss 
Temple  and  a  fat  young  lady  with  an  incipient  asthma. 
Nunu  had  not  been  seen  since  the  first  cluster  of  hang- 
ing flowers  had  hidden  her  from  our  sight  as  she  bound- 
ed upward. 

The  hour  or  two  of  slanting  sunshine,  poured  in  upon 
the  summit  of  the  precipice  from  the  west,  had  been 
sufficient  to  induce  a  fine  and  silken  moss  to  show  its 


246  THE    PORTLAND    SKETCH    BOOK. 

fibres  and  small  blossoms  above  the  carpet  of  pine- 
tassels,  and,  emerging  from  the  brown  shadow  of  the 
wood,  you  stood  on  a  verdant  platform,  the  foliage  of 
sighing  trees  overhead,  a  fairies'  velvet  beneath  you, 
and  a  view  below,  that  you  may  as  well  (if  you  would 
not  die  in  your  ignorance)  make  a  voyage  to  sec. 

We  found  Nunu  lying  thoughtfully  near  the  brink 
of  the  precipice  and  gazing  off  over  the  waters  of  the 
sound,  as  if  she  watched  the  coming  or  going  of  a 
friend  under  the  white  sails  that  glanced  upon  its  bo- 
som. We  recovered  our  breath  in  silence,  I  alone 
perhaps  of  that  considerable  company  gazing  with  ad- 
miration at  the  lithe  and  unconscious  figure  of  grace 
lying  in  the  attitude  of  the  Grecian  hermaphrodite  on 
the  brow  of  the  rock  before  us.  Her  eyes  were  moist, 
and  motionless  with  abstraction,  her  lips  just  perceptibly 
curved  in  an  expression  of  mingled  pride  and  sorrow, 
her  small  hand  buried  and  clenched  in  the  moss,  and 
her  left  foot  and  ankle,  models  of  spirited  symmetry, 
escaped  carelessly  from  her  dress,  the  high  instep 
strained  back,  as  if  recovering  from  a  leap  with  the 
tense  control  of  emotion. 

The  game  of  the  coquettish  Georgian  was  well  play- 
ed. With  a  true  woman's  pique,  she  had  redoubled 
her  attentions  to  my  friend  from  the  moment  that  she 
found  it  gave  pain  to  another  of  her  sex  ;  and  St.  John, 
like  most  men,  seemed  not  unwilling  to  see  a  new  altar 
kindled  to  his  vanity,  though  a  heart  be  had  already 
won,  was  stifling  with  the  incense.  Miss  Temple  was 
very  lovely :  her  skin  of  that  tcint  of  opaque  and  pa- 
trician white,  which  is  found  oftenest  in  Asian  latitudes, 
was  just  perceptibly  warmed  toward  the  centre  of  the 
cheek  with  a  glow  like  sunshine  through  the  thick  white 


THE  CHEROKEE'S  THREAT.  247 

petal  of  a  magnolia :  her  eyes  were  hazel  with  those 
inky  lashes  which  enhance  the  expression  a  thousand 
fold  either  of  passion,  or  melancholy  ;  her  teeth  were 
like  strips  from  the  lily's  heart ;  and  she  was  clever, 
captivating,  graceful,  and  a  thorough  coquette.  St. 
John  was  mysterious,  romantic-looking,  superior,  and 
just  now  the  only  victim  in  the  way.  He  admired,  as 
all  men  do,  those  qualities,  which  to  her  own  sex,  ren- 
dered the  fair  Isabella  unamiable,  and  yielded  himself, 
as  all  men  will,  a  satisfied  prey  to  enchantments  of 
which  he  knew  the  springs  were  the  pique  and  vanity 
of  the  enchantress.  How  singular  it  is  that  the  highest 
and  best  qualities  of  the  female  heart  are  those  with 
which  men  are  the  least  captivated  ! 

A  rib  of  the  mountain  formed  a  natural  seat  a  little 
back  from  the  pitch  of  the  precipice,  and  here  sat  Miss 
Temple,  triumphant  in  drawing  all  eyes  upon  herself 
and  her  tamed  lion,  her  lap  full  of  flowers  which  he 
had  found  time  to  gather  on  the  way,  and  her  fair 
hands  employed  in  arranging  a  bouquet,  of  which  the 
destiny  was  yet  a  secret.  Next  to  their  own  loves, 
ladies  like  nothing  on  earth  like  mending  or  marring 
the  loves  of  others  ;  and,  while  the  violets  and  already 
drooping  wild  flowers  were  coquettishly  chosen  or  re- 
jected by  those  slender  fingers,  the  sun  might  have 
swung  back  to  the  east  like  a  pendulum,  and  those 
seven-and-twenty  misses  would  have  watched  their 
lovely  schoolfellow  the  same.  Nunu  turned  her  head 
slowly  around  at  last,  and  silently  looked  on.  St.  John 
lay  at  the  feet  of  the  Georgian,  glancing  from  the  flow- 
ers to  her  face,  and  from  her  face  to  the  flowers,  with 
an  admiration  not  at  all  equivocal.  Mrs.  Ilfrington  sat 
apart,  absorbed  in  finishing  a  sketch  of  New-Haven ; 


248         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

and  I,  interested  painfully  in  watching  the  emotions  of 
the  Cherokee,  sat  with  my  back  to  the  trunk  of  a  hem- 
lock, the  only  spectator  who  comprehended  the  whole 
extent  of  the  drama. 

A  wild  rose  was  set  in  the  heart  of  the  bouquet  at 
last,  a  spear  of  riband-grass  added  to  give  it  grace  and 
point,  and  nothing  was  wanting  but  a  string. 

Reticules  were  searched,  pockets  turned  inside  out, 
and  never  a  bit  of  riband  to  be  found.  The  beauty 
was  in  despair. 

"  Stay  !  "  said  St.  John,  springing  to  his  feet.  "  Last ! 
Last!"* 

The  dog  came  coursing  in  from  the  wood,  and 
crouched  to  his  master's  hand. 

"  Will  a  string  of  wampum  do!"  he  asked,  feeling 
under  the  long  hair  on  the  dog's  neck,  and  untying  a 
fine  and  variegated  thread  of  many-colored  beads, 
worked  exquisitely. 

The  dog  growled,  and  Nunu  sprang  into  the  middle 
of  the  circle  with  the  fling  of  an  adder,  and  seizing  the 
wampum  as  he  handed  it  to  her  rival,  called  the  dog 
and  fastened  it  once  more  around  his  neck. 

The  ladies  rose  in  alarm  ;  the  belle  turned  pale  and 
clung  to  St.  John's  arm  ;  the  dog,  with  his  hair  bristling 
on  his  back,  stood  close  to  her  feet  in  an  attitude  of  de- 
fiance, and  the  superb  Indian,  the  peculiar  genius  of 
her  beauty  developed  by  her  indignation,  her  nostrils 
expanded  and  her  eyes  almost  showering  fire  in  their 
flashes,  stood  before  them,  like  a  young  Pythoness, 
ready  to  strike  them  dead  with  a  regard. 

St.  John  recovered  from  his  astonishment  after  a 
moment,  and  leaving  the  arm  of  Miss  Temple,  advan- 
ced a  step  and  called  to  his  dog. 


THE  CHEROKEE'S  THREAT.  249 

The  Cherokee  patted  the  animal  on  the  back,  and 
spoke  to  him  in  her  own  language  ;  and,  as  St.  John 
still  advanced,  Nunu  drew  herself  to  her  fullest  height, 
placed  herself  before  the  dog,  who  slunk  growling  from 
his  master,  and  said  to  him  as  she  folded  her  arms, 
"  the  wampum  is  mine  !  " 

St.  John  colored  to  the  temples  with  shame. 

"  Last !  "  he  cried,  stamping  with  his  foot,  and  en- 
deavoring to  frighten  him  from  his  shelter. 

The  dog  howled  and  crept  away,  half  crouching 
with  fear  toward  the  precipice  ;  and  St.  John  shooting 
suddenly  past  Nunu,  seized  him  on  the  brink,  and  held 
him  down  by  the  throat. 

The  next  instant  a  scream  of  horror  from  Mrs.  II- 
frington,  followed  by  a  terrific  echo  from  every  female 
present,  started  the  rude  Kentuckian  to  his  feet. 

Clear  over  the  abyss,  hanging  with  one  hand  by  an 
aspen  sapling,  the  point  of  her  tiny  foot  just  poising  on 
a  projecting  ledge  of  rock,  swung  the  desperate  Chero- 
kee, sustaining  herself  with  perfect  ease,  but  with  all 
the  determination  of  her  iron  race  collected  in  calm 
concentration  on  her  lips. 

"  Restore  the  wampum  to  his  neck ! "  she  cried, 
with  a  voice  that  thrilled  the  very  marrow  with  its  sub- 
dued fierceness,  "  or  my  blood  rest  on  your  soul !  " 

St.  John  flung  it  toward  the  dog,  and  clasped  his 
hands  in  silent  horror. 

The  Cherokee  bore  down  the  sapling  till  its  slender 
stem  cracked  with  the  tension,  and  rising  lightly  with 
the  rebound,  alit  like  a  feather  upon  the  rock.  The 
subdued  Kentuckian  sprang  to  her  side  ;  but,  with  scorn 
on  her  lip  and  the  flush  of  exertion  already  vanished 
22 


250         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

from  her  check,  she  called  to  the  dog,  and  with  rapid 
strides  took  her  way  alone  down  the  mountain. 

Five  years  had  elapsed.  I  had  put  to  sea  from  the 
sheltered  river  of  boyhood  ;  had  encountered  the  storms 
of  a  first  entrance  into  life ;  had  trimmed  my  boat, 
shortened  sail,  and  with  a  sharp  eye  to  windward,  was 
laying  fairly  on  my  course.  Among  others  from  whom 
1  had  parted  company,  was  Paul  St.  John,  who  had 
shaken  hands  with  me  at  the  university-gate,  leaving 
me,  after  four  years'  intimacy,  as  much  in  doubt  as  to 
his  real  character  and  history  as  the  first  day  we  met. 
I  had  never  heard  him  speak  of  either  father  or  mo- 
ther ;  nor  had  he,  to  my  knowledge,  received  a  letter 
from  the  dav  of  his  matriculation.  He  passed  his  va- 
cation at  the  university.  He  had  studied  well,  yet 
refused  one  of  the  highest  college-honors  offered  him 
with  his  degree.  He  had  shown  many  good  qualities, 
yet  some  unaccountable  faults;  and,  all  in  all,  was  an 
enigma  to  myself  and  the  class.  I  knew  him  clever, 
accomplished,  and  conscious  of  superiority,  and  my 
knowledge  went  no  farther. 

It  was  five  years  from  this  time,  I  say,  and  in  the 
bitter  strusfslcs  of  first  manhood.  I  had  almost  forgotten 

~o  o 

there  was  such  a  being  in  the  world.  Late  in  the 
month  of  October,  in  1829, 1  was  on  my  way  westward, 
giving  myself  a  vacation  from  the  law.  I  embarked  on 
a  clear  and  delicious  day  in  the  small  steamer  which 
plies  up  and  down  the  Cayuga  Lake,  looking  forward 
to  a  cairn  feast  of  scenery,  and  caring  little  who  were 
to  be  my  fellow  passengers.  As  we  got  out  of  the  lit- 
tle harbor  of  Cayuga,  I  walked  astern  for  the  first  time, 


THE  CHEROKEE'S  THREAT.  251 

and  saw  the  not  very  unusual  sight  of  a  group  of  In- 
dians standing  motionless  by  the  wheel.  They  were 
chiefs  returning  from  a  diplomatic  visit  to  Washington. 
I  sat  down  by  the  companion-ladder,  and  opened 
soul  and  eye  to  the  glorious  scenery  we  were  gliding 
through.  The  first  severe  frost  had  come,  and  the 
miraculous  change  had  passed  upon  the  leaves,  which 
is  known  only  in  America.  The  blood-red  sugar- 
maple,  with  a  leaf  brighter  and  more  delicate  than  a 
Circassian's  lip,  stood  here  and  there  in  the  forest  like 
the  sultan's  standard  in  a  host,  the  solitary  and  far- 
seen  aristocrat  of  the  wilderness;  the  birch,  with  its 
spirit-like  and  amber  leaves,  ghosts  of  the  departed 
summer,  turned  out  along  the  edges  of  the  woods  like 
a  lining  of  the  palest  gold ;  the  broad  sycamore  and 
the  fan-like  catalpa,  flaunted  their  saffron  foliage  in  the 
sun,  spotted  with  gold  like  the  wings  of  a  lady-bird  ; 
the  kingly  oak,  with  its  summit  shaken  bare,  still  hid 
its  majestic  trunk  in  a  drapery  of  sumptuous  dies  like 
a  stricken  monarch,  gathering  his  robes  of  state  about 
him  to  die  royally  in  his  purple  ;  the  tall  poplar,  with 
its  minaret  of  silver  leaves,  stood  blanched  like  a  cow- 
ard in  the  dying  forest,  burdening  every  breeze  with 
its  complainings ;  the  hickory,  paled  through  its  en- 
during green;  the  bright  berries  of  the  mountain-ash 
flushed  with  a  sanguine  glory  in  the  unobstructed  sun  ; 
the  gaudy  tulip-tree,  the  sybarite  of  vegetation,  stripped 
of  its  golden  cups,  still  drank  the  intoxicating  light  of 
noonday  in  leaves  than  which  the  lip  of  Indian  shell 
was  never  more  delicately  teinted  ;  the  still  deeper-died 
vines  of  the  lavish  wilderness,  perishing  with  the  nobler 
things  whose  summer  they  had  shared,  outshone  them 
in  their  decline,  as  woman  in  her  death  is  heavenlier 


252         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

than  the  being  on  whom  in  life  she  leaned  ;  and  alone 
and  unsympathizing  in  this  universal  decay,  outlaws 
from  nature,  stood  the  fir  and  the  hemlock,  their  frown- 
ing and  sombre  heads,  darker  and  less  lovely  than  ever 
in  contrast  with  the  death-struck  glory  of  their  com- 
panions. 

The  dull  colors  of  English  autumnal  foliage,  give 
you  no  conception  of  this  marvellous  phenomenon. 
The  change  here,  too,  is  gradual.  In  America  it  is 
the  work  of  a  night — of  a  single  frost !  Ah,  to  have 
seen  the  sun  set  on  hills,  bright  in  the  still  green  and 
lingering  summer,  and  to  wake  in  the  morning  to  a 
spectacle  like  this !  It  is  as  if  a  myriad  of  rainbows 
were  laced  through  the  tree-tops — as  if  the  sunsets  of 
a  summer — gold,  purple  and  crimson — had  been  fused 
in  the  alembic  of  the  west,  and  poured  back  in  a  new 
deluge  of  light  and  color  over  the  wilderness.  It  is  as 
if  every  leaf  in  those  countless  trees  had  been  painted 
to  outflush  the  tulip — as  if,  by  some  electric  miracle, 
the  dies  of  the  earth's  heart  had  struck  upward,  and 
her  crystals  and  ore,  her  sapphires,  hyacinths  and  ru- 
bies, had  let  forth  their  imprisoned  dies  to  mount 
through  the  roots  of  the  forest,  and  like  the  angels  that 
in  olden  time  entered  the  bodies  of  the  dying,  reanimate 
the  perishing  leaves,  and  revel  an  hour  in  their  bravery. 

I  was  sitting  by  the  companion-ladder,  thinking  to 
what  on  earth  these  masses  of  foliage  could  be  resem- 
bled, when  a  dog  sprang  upon  my  knees,  and,  the 
moment  after,  a  hand  was  laid  on  my  shoulder. 

"  St.  John  1     Impossible  !  " 

*•  Bodily  !  "  answered  my  quondam  classmate. 

I  looked  at  him  with  astonishment.  The  soigne  man 
of  fashion  I  had  once  known,  was  enveloped  in  a  kind 


THE  CHEROKEE'S  THREAT.  253 

of  hunter's  frock,  loose  and  large,  and  girded  to  his 
waist  by  a  belt ;  his  hat  was  exchanged  for  a  cap  of 
rich  otter-skin ;  his  pantaloons  spread  with  a  slovenly 
carelessness  over  his  feet,  and  altogether  there  was 
that  in  his  air  which  told  me  at  a  glance  that  he  had 
renounced  the  world.  Last  had  recovered  his  leanness, 
and  after  wagging  out  his  joy,  he  couched  between  my 
feet,  and  lay  looking  into  my  face  as  if  he  was  brood- 
ing over  the  more  idle  days  in  which  we  had  been  ac- 
quainted. 

"And  where  are  you  bound  1  I  asked,  having  an- 
swered the  same  question  for  myself. 

"  Westward  with  the  chiefs  !  " 

"For  how  longl" 

"  The  remainder  of  my  life." 

I  could  not  forbear  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  You  would  wonder  less,"  said  he,  with  an  impa- 
tient gesture,  "  if  you  knew  more  of  me.  And  by  the 
way,"  he  added,  with  a  smile,  "  I  think  I  never  told 
you  the  first  half  of  the  story — my  life  up  to  the  time 
I  met  you." 

"  It  was  not  for  the  want  of  a  catechist,"  I  answered, 
setting  myself  in  an  attitude  of  attention. 

"  No !  and  I  was  often  tempted  to  gratify  your  curi- 
osity ;  but  from  the  little  intercourse  I  had  with  the 
world  I  had  adopted  some  precocious  principles,  and 
one  was,  that  a  man's  influence  over  others  was  vulgar- 
ism, and  diminished  by  a  knowledge  of  his  history." 

I  smiled,  and  as  the  boat  sped  on  her  way  over  the 
calm  waters  of  the  Cayuga,  St.  John  went  on  leisurely 
with  a  story  which  is  scarce  remarkable  enough  to 
merit  a  repetition.  He  believed  himself  the  natural 
son  of  a  western  hunter,  but  only  knew  that  he  had 
22* 


254         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

passed  his  early  youth  on  the  borders  of  civilization, 
between  whites  and  Indians,  and  that  he  had  been  more 
particularly  indebted  for  protection  to  the  father  of 
Nunu.  Mingled  ambition  and  curiosity  had  led  him 
eastward  while  still  a  lad,  and  a  year  or  two  of  the 
most  vagabond  life  in  the  different  cities,  had  taught 
him  the  caution  and  bitterness  for  which  he  was  so  re- 
markable. A  fortunate  experiment  in  lotteries  supplied 
him  with  the  means  of  education,  and  with  singular 
application  in  a  youth  of  such  wandering  habits,  he  had 
applied  himself  to  study  under  a  private  master,  fitted 
himself  for  the  university  in  half  the  usual  time,  and 
cultivated  in  addition  the  literary  taste  which  I  have 
remarked  upon. 

"  This,"  he  said,  smiling  at  my  look  of  astonishment, 
"  brings  me  up  to  the  time  when  we  met.  I  came  to 
college  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  with  a  few  hundred 
dollars  in  my  pocket,  some  pregnant  experience  of  the 
rough  side  of  the  world,  great  confidence  in  myself  and 
distrust  of  others,  and,  I  believe,  a  kind  of  instinct  of 
good  manners,  which  made  me  ambitious  of  shining  in 
society.  You  were  a  witness  of  my  debut.  Miss 
Temple  was  the  first  highly  educated  woman  I  had 
ever  known,  and  you  saw  the  effect  on  me  !  " 

"  And  since  we  parted  I  " 

"  Oh,  since  we  parted,  my  life  has  been  vulgar 
enough.  I  have  ransacked  civilized  life  to  the  bottom, 
and  found  it  a  heap  of  unredeemed  falsehoods.  I  do 
not  say  it  from  common  disappointment,  for  I  may  say 
I  succeeded  in  every  thing  I  undertook." 

"  Except  Miss  Temple,"  I  said,  interrupting,  at  the 
hazard  of  wounding  him. 


THE  CHEROKEE'S  THREAT.  255 

"  No.  She  was  a  coquette,  and  I  pursued  her  till 
I  had  my  turn.  You  see  me  in  my  new  character  now. 
But  a  month  ago,  I  was  the  Apollo  of  Saratoga,  playing 
my  own  game  with  Miss  Temple.  I  left  her  for  a 
woman  worth  ten  thousand  of  her — but  here  she  is." 

As  Nunu  came  up  the  companion  way  from  the  cabin, 
I  thought  I  had  never  seen  a  breathing  creature  so  ex- 
quisitely lovely.  With  the  exception  of  a  pair  of  brill- 
iant moccasins  on  her  feet,  she  was  dressed  in  the  usual 
manner,  but  with  the  most  absolute  simplicity.  She 
had  changed  in  those  five  years  from  the  child  to  the 
woman,  and,  with  a  round  and  well-developed  figure, 
additional  height,  and  manners  at  once  gracious  and 
dignified,  she  walked  and  looked  the  chieftan's  daugh- 
ter. St.  John  took  her  hand,  and  gazed  on  her  with 
moisture  in  his  eyes. 

"  That  I  could  ever  put  a  creature  like  this,"  he 
said,  "  into  comparison  with  the  dolls  of  civilization  !" 

We  parted  at  Buffalo — St.  John  with  his  wife  and 
the  chiefs  to  pursue  their  way  westward  by  Lake  Erie, 
and  I  to  go  moralizing  on  my  way  to  Niagara. 


GRECIAN  AND  ROMAN  ELOQUENCE. 

By    Ashur    Ware. 

IN  the  flourishing  periods  of  the  Grecian  and  Roman 
commonwealths,  the  forms  of  their  governments,  the 
state  of  society,  and  the  passions  and  manners  of  the 
times,  were  more  favorable  to  the  developement  of 
great  talents,  than  have  existed  in  any  other  age,  or 
among  any  other  people.  In  Athens  and  Rome,  every 
citizen  was  a  public  man.  The  great  powers  of  gov- 
ernment were  exercised  by  the  people  themselves  in 
their  primary  assemblies.  The  practice  of  delegating 
the  higher  attributes  of  sovereignty  to  a  small  number 
of  persons  periodically  elected  is  one  of  the  greatest 
improvements,  which  the  lights  of  modern  experience 
have  introduced  into  the  constitutions  of  free  govern- 
ments. The  advantages  which  arc  gained  by  this  sys- 
tem in  favor  of  internal  tranquillity,  the  steadiness  and 
permanency  of  political  institutions  and  the  security  of 
private  rights,  can  scarcely  be  estimated  too  highly,  or 
purchased  at  too  great  a  price.  But  nearly  in  the 
same  proportion  as  this  improvement  contributes  to  the 
general  tranquillity  and  the  personal  security  of  the 
citizen,  does  it  narrow  the  field  for  the  operation  of 
great  talents.  The  individual  power  of  each  man  is 
hardly  felt  in  the  harmonious  working  of  the  great 
machine  of  government,  and  its  character  soon  comes 
to  depend  much  more  on  the  system  than  on  the  gen- 
ius of  those  by  whom  it  is  conducted.  Precedents, 
fixed  opinions,  long  established  policy  and  constitutional 


GRECIAN    AND    ROMAN    ELOQUENCE.  257 

maxims,  throw  an  invisible  net  work  over  those,  who 
are  at  the  head  of  affairs,  which  a  giant's  strength 
cannot  break  through.  An  ordinary  share  of  talent, 
enlightened  by  experience,  is  found  to  be  about  as 
useful  in  the  regular  movement  of  the  system,  as  the 
highest  gifts  of  genius. 

But  it  was  otherwise  in  the  republics  of  Athens  and 
Rome.  There  the  power  of  the  system  was  nothing, 
and  the  genius  of  the  individual  every  thing.  In  the 
agitations  of  these  popular  commonwealths,  the  great 
actors  on  the  stage  were  driven  to  a  life  of  unremitted 
exertion.  The  revolutions  of  popular  favor  were  sud- 
den and  appalling,  and  always  liable  to  be  carried  to 
great  extremes.  A  decisive  moment  lost  might  be 
fatal  to  the  hopes  of  a  whole  life.  Their  powers  were, 
therefore,  constantly  wound  up  to  the  utmost  intensity 
of  action.  Second  rate  men,  who  are  abundantly  able 
to  go  through  with  the  regular  and  quiet  routine  of 
official  duty  in  our  modern  bureaus,  would  be  quickly 
blown  down  by  the  storms  which  shook  the  tribunes  of 
those  turbulent  democracies.  The  very  imperfections 
in  their  political  systems  contributed  to  devolope  the 
genius  of  their  statesmen,  and  necessarily  called  into 
action  every  faculty  of  the  mind. 

In  all  free  and  popular  governments,  eloquence  is 
one  of  the  principal  instruments  of  power,  and  the 
fairest  field  is  presented  for  its  operations  where  the 
general  powers  of  government  are  put  in  motion  by 
the  immediate  agency  of  the  mass  of  the  people.  In 
all  the  nations  of  modern  Europe,  where  the  semblance 
of  deliberative  assemblies  is  preserved,  these  are  com- 
posed of  a  small  and  select  number  of  persons ;  and 
in  these  small  bodies,  when  a  reasonable  space  is  al- 


258         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

lowed  for  the  coercive  power  of  party  training,  for  the 
operation  of  the  subtle  and  diffusive  poison  of  execu- 
tive influence,  and  in  some  cases,  for  the  gross  and 
palpable  application  of  direct  corruption,  the  province 
of  eloquence  will  be  found  to  be  greatly  narrowed. 
Her  most  persuasive  accents  fall  on  ears  that  are  spell- 
bound by  a  mightier  power,  and  on  the  most  important 
questions,  the  votes  are  often  counted,  before  delibera- 
tion commences.  But  this  complicated  machinery 
cannot  be  brought  to  bear  with  the  same  effect  on  the 
whole  body  of  the  citizens.  If  their  movements  are 
more  irregular,  and  liable  to  greater  excesses,  they 
have  their  origin  in  the  purer  and  more  noble  impulses 
of  the  heart.  The  natural  love  of  equity,  the  instinct- 
ive principles  of  disinterestedness  and  generosity,  origi- 
nally implanted  in  the  heart  of  man  by  the  author  of 
our  being,  cannot  easily  be  extinguished  in  a  whole  peo- 
ple. After  the  tools  of  faction,  and  the  minions  of 
power,  have  exhausted  the  arts  of  corruption,  these 
holier  elements  of  our  nature  will  kindle  into  sponta- 
neous enthusiasm,  when  lofty  and  generous  sentiments 
are  brought  home  to  the  bosom  in  the  accents  of  a 
manly  and  pathetic  eloquence.  The  great  and  unso- 
phisticated springs  of  human  action  arc  always  touched 
with  most  effect  in  large  assemblies.  In  these  the  pre- 
vailing tone  of  feeling,  when  highly  exalted,  spreads 
through  the  whole  by  a  secret  sympathy,  with  the 
rapidity  of  the  electric  fluid. 

It  was  before  such  an  audience  that  eloquence 
uttered  her  voice  in  ancient  times.  The  orators  of 
Greece  and  Rome  brought  their  genius  to  bear  directly 
on  the  popular  mind.  The  public  assemblies  which 
were  then  held  were  for  actual  deliberation.  It  was 


GRECIAN    AKD    ROMAN    ELOQtJENCE.  259 

not  a  mocker}''  of  consultation  on  matters  upon  which 
all  opinions  were  definitely  made  up.  They  came 
together  to  be  instructed,  and  were  open  to  the  seduc- 
tive arts  of  their  orators  even  to  a  fault.  The  objects 
of  deliberation  also  were  of  the  greatest  moment,  the 
fortunes  of  a  province  or  a  kingdom,  the  safety  of  the 
republic,  the  honor,  or  perhaps  the  life  of  the  orator 
himself  or  his 'nearest  friends.  Every  motive  which 
hope  or  fear  or  pride  or  party  could  suggest,  to  animate 
the  passions,  was  brought  to  act  on  the  speaker's  mind, 
and  all  depended  on  a  doubtful  decision,  which  was  to 
be  made  on  the  spot,  and  before  the  separation  of  the 
assembly.  These  contests  were  not  of  rare  occur- 
rence. They  were  coming  up  continually.  They 
were  upon  the  most  magnificent  theatre  in  the  world, 
and  before  judges  who  united  a  most  refined  and  dis- 
criminating taste  with  an  extraordinary  degree  of  sus- 
ceptibility to  all  the  charms  of  a  passionate  and  harmo- 
nious eloquence.  The  orators,  therefore,  were  kept  in 
constant  training.  Their  faculties  had  no  time  to  cool. 

They  had  no  intervals  for  luxurious  repose.  The 
dignities  to  which  they  had  risen  were  watched  by 
powerful  and  jealous  rivals,  always  ready  to  wrest  from 
them  their  honors,  and  they  could  be  retained  only  by 
the  same  efforts  by  which  they  were  won. 

In  these  ancient  republics  eloquence  was  substantial 
and  effective  power  and  led  to  the  highest  dignities, 
which  the  most  aspiring  genius  could  hope  to  attain. 
It  was  cultivated  with  an  assiduity  bearing  a  just  pro- 
portion to  the  honors  with  which  it  was  crowned.  The 
education  of  the  orator  commenced  in  his  cradle,  and 
did  not  terminate  until  he  had  reached  the  full  muturity 
of  manhood  ;  or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  it  comprised 


260       •  'THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

the  whole  business  of  his  life.  All  his  studies  were 
made  subservient  to  the  art  of  speaking,  and  the  course 
of  instruction  descended  into  the  most  minute  details 
which  could  improve  him  in  his  action  or  elocution. 
It  was  this  entire  devotion  to  a  favorite  and  honored 
art,  which  raised  it  to  a  height  of  perfection,  which  it 
has  never  since  been  able  to  reach,  and  which  produ- 
ced those  prodigies  in  the  oratorical  art,  which  have 
been  the  admiration  and  the  despair  of  succeeding  ages. 
In  the  most  brilliant  period  of  antiquity  there  were 
two  styles  of  eloquence  cultivated  by  the  different  ora- 
tors. One,  calm,  subtle  and  elegant,  addressed  almost 
exclusively  to  the  understanding.  In  the  time  of 
Cicero  this  was  called  the  Attic  style,  and  those  who 
belonged  to  this  school  assumed  no  little  credit  on  the 
supposed  purity  of  their  Attic  taste.  The  other  affect- 
ed a  style  of  greater  warmth  and  brilliancy,  and  inter- 
mingled with  the  scrupulous  dialectics  of  the  former, 
frequent  appeals  to  the  passions,  and  adorned  their  dis- 
courses with  all  the  beauties  which  could  captivate  the 
imagination.  What  was  then  denominated  the  Attic 
style,  forms  the  prevailing  characteristic  of  modern 
oratory.  It  is  cool  and  didactic.  It  relies  almost 
wholly  on  the  powers  of  a  cultivated  logic  and  seldom 
attempts  to  reach  the  understanding  through  the  medi- 
um of  the  heart.  It  requires  little  reflection  to  deter- 
mine which  of  these  styles  would  bear  away  the  palm 
before  a  popular  audience.  The  former  leaves  one 
half  the  faculties  of  the  hearer  dormant,  while  the  lat- 
ter addresses  itself  to  all  the  powers  of  man,  the  moral 
as  well  as  the  intellectual,  instructs  the  reason  while  it 
agitates  the  passions,  and  gives  at  the  same  time  one 
powerful  and  impetuous  movement  to  the  whole  man. 


GRECIAN    AND    ROMAN    ELOQUENCE.  261 

But  if  any  one  doubts  upon  this  matter  let  him  go  to 
the  pages  of  Demosthenes  and  especially  to  that  most 
perfect  of  all  his  orations,  in  which  he  was  contending 
with  his  great  rival  for  the  glory  of  a  whole  life  in  the 
presence  of  all  that  was  most  illustrious  in  Greece, — 
his  oration  for  the  crown.  He  will  find  from  the  be- 
ginning to  the  end,  a  clear  and  exact  logic.  But  it  is 
logic  raised  into  enthusiasm  by  the  dignity  and  eleva- 
tion of  sentiment  by  which  it  is  surrounded.  He  will 
not  find  a  metaphor  or  an  observation  introduced  mere- 
ly for  the  purposes  of  ornament.  It  is  a  continued 
stream  of  clear,  rapid  and  convincing  argument.  But 
it  is  argument  enveloped  in  a  torrent  of  earnestness 
and  exaggeration,  environed  with  a  blaze  of  anger  and 
disdain  and  passion — it  is  argument  clothed  in  thunder, 
which  could  no  more  be  listened  to  with  a  composed 
and  tranquil  mind  than  the  flashes  of  lightning  could  be 
viewed  with  an  unblinking  eye.  Strip  Demosthenes  of 
these  accompaniments,  of  these  accessories,  if  you 
please  to  call  them  so,  and  you  will  leave  enough  per- 
haps to  satisfy  our  modern  Attics,  but  this  residue  will 
be  no  more  like  the  living  Demosthenes  who  "  fulmin- 
ed  over  Greece,"  than  the  unformed  block  of  marble 
is  like  the  Belvidere  Apollo,  or  a  naked  skeleton  like 
a  living  man. 

It  is  said  that  the  state  of  manners  in  modern  society 
would  not  bear  those  bold  appeals  to  the  passions  which 
abound  in  the  ancient  orators.  We  are  ingenious  in 
taking  to  ourselves  credit  even  for  our  inferiority,  and 
it  is  contended  that  our  understandings  are  more  culti- 
vated and  our  passions  more  under  the  dominion  of 
reason.  If  there  be  any  foundation  for  this  opinion  it 
must  be  received  with  many  qualifications.  It  has  be- 
23 


262        • THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

come  a  fashion  of  late  to  decry  the  manners  and  mor- 
als of  the  republics  of  antiquity.  That  their  manners 
differed  in  many  respects  from  the  modes  of  fashion 
established  in  what  is  called  good  society  in  modern 
times  is  admitted,  hut  it  docs  not  follow  that  the  advan- 
tage is  on  our  side.  There  is  still  less  foundation  for 
the  opinion  that  in  their  intellectual  powers  the  Greeks 
and  Romans  were  less  cultivated  than  the  most  polish- 
ed nations  of  our  times.  There  never  existed  a  nation 
in  which  the  intellectual  education  of  the  whole  body 
of  the  people  was  carried  to  so  high  a  pitch  as  in  Ath- 
ens. However  extravagant  the  assertion  may  he 
thought,  it  is  indisputably  true  that  the  "  mob  of  Ath- 
ens," as  the  people  of  that  renowned  commonwealth 
are  affectedly  called,  were  of  a  more  refined,  seven; 
and  critical  taste  in  every  thing  that  pertains  to  the  beau- 
ties of  eloquence  than  the  members  of  the  British  House 
of  Commons  have  been,  at  any  period  of  its  existence, 
from  the  first  meeting  of  the  Wittenagemote  to  the 
present  day.  They  would  allow,  snys  Cicero,  in  their 
orators  no  violation  of  purity  or  elegance  of  language. 
Eorum  rcligioni  cum  servirct  orator,  indium  verlum 
insolens,  nullum  odiosum  poncrc  audcbal.  Many  a 
speech  has  been  cheered  by  the  "  hear  hints  "  of  the 
Treasury  Bench  in  that  house,  which  would  have  shock- 
ed the  discriminating  and  critical  ears,  aures  terct.es  ac 
religiosas,  of  that  extraordinary  people.  The  whole 
testimony  of  antiquity  concurs  in  proving  their  extreme 
delicacy  and  fastidiousness  in  every  thing  which  be- 
longs to  taste  in  letters  and  the  arts. 

There  was  another  peculiarity  in  the  circumstances 
of  these  ancient  republics  which  favored  the  cultivation 
of  eloquence.  The  press,  that  great  engine  by  which 


GRECIAN    AND    RO3IAN    ELOQUENCE.  263 

public  opinion  is  moved  in  modern  times,  was  then  un- 
known. Addresses  in  the  assemblies  of  the  people 
were  not  only  the  ordinary  but  almost  the  sole  mode 
by  which  public  men  could  influence  or  enlighten  pub- 
lic opinion.  All  political  discussion  assumed  this  form 
and  these  popular  harangues  composed  a  very  large 
portion  of  the  literature  of  the  times.  The  lano-uacre 

1  O         O 

of  oral  communication  naturally  assumes  a  tone  of 
greater  vivacity  and  passion  than  that  of  the  closet. 
The  predominance  of  this  species  of  composition  must 
have  had  a  powerful  influence  in  forming  the  national 
taste  and  would  naturally  impart  its  prevailing  tone  to 
every  other  species.  Such  seems  to  have  been  the 
fact.  The  philosophers  and  historians  caught  some- 
thing of  the  animated  and  rhetorical  manner  of  their 
public  speakers,  and  in  that  species  of  eloquence  which 
is  suited  to  the  nature  of  their  subjects,  surpass  the 
moderns  nearly  as  much  as  their  orators  do.  Plato 
stands  as  far  above  all  rivals  in  this  particular,  as  his 
countryman  and  disciple  Demosthenes.  The  easy  and 
graceful  movement  of  his  dialogue,  the  splendid  ampli- 
fication and  harmonious  numbers  of  his  declamation 
and  the  warm  and  animated  glow  of  moral  enthusiasm, 
which  he  has  thrown  over  his  mystical  speculations, 
render  his  works  the  most  perfect  specimen  of  philo- 
sophical eloquence  ever  yet  produced.  His  example 
will  also  show  what  importance  was  attached  to  style 
alone  by  the  teachers  of  ancient  wisdom.  The  last  la- 
bors of  a  long  life,  which  had  been  devoted  to  the  most 
sublime  philosophy  of  the  age,  were  employed  in  re- 
touching and  remodelling  the  inimitable  graces  of  his 
rich  and  flowing  periods  ;  musao  contingens  cuncta  le- 
pore. 


264         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

A  superiority  scarcely  less  imposing  in  this  respect 
will  be  found  in  their  historians.  Their  genius  was 
also  kindled  by  a  coal  from  the  altar  of  the  orators.  I 
am  ready  to  acknowledge  the  great  merit  of  the  classic 
historians  of  modern  times.  I  am  not  insensible  to  the 
calm  and  sustained  dignity  of  Robcrston,  to  the  melody 
of  his  full  and  flowing  style,  though  it  sometimes  fills 
the  ear  without  filling  the  mind.  He  must  be  a  much 
more  morose  critic  who  is  not  delighted  with  the  simple 
and  unaffected  elegance  of  Hume,  and  with  that  admi- 
rable facility  with  which  he  intermingles  the  most  pro- 
found reflections  in  a  narration  always  easy,  copious 
and  graceful.  Nor  can  the  historian  of  the  Decline 
and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  be  forgotten  in  an  enu- 
meration of  those  who  have  done  honor  to  this  branch 
of  literature.  After  all  that  has  been  said  and  written 
against  him,  he  has  left  a  work  which  the  world  will 
not  willingly  suffer  to  die.  The  Randolphs  and  Tay- 
lors and  Chclsums  by  whom  he  was  assailed,  have 
passed  into  an  easy  oblivion,  but  the  great  work  of  the 
historian  will  always  find  a  place  in  every  library  and 
a  reader  in  every  well  educated  man.  The  pomp  and 
stateliness  of  his  style  somtimcs  bordering  on  the  tur- 
gid may  provoke  a  sneer  from  those  who  look  only  to 
the  surface,  but  he  had  a  mind  enriched  by  various 
and  extensive  learning,  which  he  has  exuberantly  and 
tastefully  displayed  in  every  page  of  his  work.  It  may 
also  be  admitted  that  in  modern  times  history  has  in 
its  general  character  received  something  more  of  a  phi- 
losophical tone.  But  what  it  has  gained  on  the  side  of 
philosophy  it  has  more  than  lost  on  that  of  eloquence. 

Compare  the  triumvirate  of  English  historians  in  this 
respect  with  the  inestimable  remains  of  antiquity,  and 


GRECIAN    AND    ROMAN    ELOQUENCE.  265 

there  is  a  disparity  as  striking  as  it  is  difficult  to  be 
accounted  for.  In  this,  as  in  every  other  department 
of  literature,  the  Romans  were  the  imitators  of  the 
Greeks  ;  but  in  history  while  they  imitated  they  sur- 
passed their  masters.  The  two  great  historians  of 
Rome  stand  above  all  that  preceded  as  well  as  all  that 
followed  them.  The  history  of  the  rise  of  the  Roman 
republic,  from  a  small  band  of  outlaws  to  the  uncon- 
trolled mastery  of  the  world,  is  the  most  extraordinary 
chapter  in  the  history  of  the  human  race.  The  annals 
of  mankind  present  nothing  that  resembles  it.  A 
splendid  or  an  affecting  story  may  be  degraded  or  be- 
littled by  being  told  in  an  unworthy  style.  But  the 
style  of  Livy  never  falls  below  the  dignity  of  his  sub- 
ject. His  eloquence  is  as  magnificent  as  the  fortunes 
of  the  eternal  city.  In  splendor  of  language,  in  glowing 
and  picturesque  description,  in  warmth  and  brilliancy 
and  boldness  of  coloring,  and  in  the  dignified  and  ma- 
jestic movement  of  his  whole  narrative,  there  is  nothing 
in  the  literature  of  any  country  which  will  bear  a  com- 
parison with  the  Decads  of  Livy.  He  is  always  on 
the  borders  of  oratory  and  poetry,  without  ever  passing 
the  soberness  of  history.  Mille  habet  ornatus,  mille 
decenter  habet. 

The  golden  age  of  letters  in  Rome  was  as  short  as 
it  was  brilliant.  It  scarcely  surpassed  in  duration  the 
ordinary  term  of  human  life.  Commencing  with  Cice- 
ro, it  closed  with  the  generation  who  were  his  cotem- 
poraries,  the  last  who  breathed  the  free  air  of  the 
republic.  But  in  the  universal  corruption  of  taste  and 
morals  that  followed  the  extinction  of  liberty,  there 
arose  one  man,  Tacitus,  whose  genius  belonged  to  a 
happier  age.  In  his  own,  it  has  been  remarked  with 
23* 


266          THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

as  much  truth  as  beauty,  he  stands  like  a  column  in 
the  midst  of  ruins.  It  has  been  said  that  the  secret  of 
his  style  belongs  to  the  circumstances  of  his  life,  as 
well  as  to  the  peculiar  temperament  of  the  man.  He 
wrote  the  history  of  his  own  times,  and  thoy  presented 
but  few  bright  spots  on  which  the  eye  could  repose 
with  pleasure.  But  he  paints  the  features  of  that  dark 
and  fearful  peace,  of  that  awful  and  portentous  silence 
of  despotism,  convulsed  as  it  was  by  internal  dissen- 
sions and  agitated  by  oil  the  vices  of  a  profligate  popu- 
lace and  an  abandoned  nobility,  in  words  of  enchant- 
ment. While  they  seem  to  express  every  thing  that  is 
terrible  in  tragedy,  they  suggest  to  the  imagination 
more  than  meets  the  ear.  No  man  could  have  descri- 
bed those  scenes  as  he  has  done  but  one  who  had  seen 
and  felt  them.  His  vivid  and  graphic  pictures  speak 
at  once  to  the  eye,  to  the  imagination,  and  to  the  heart ; 
and. without  any  of  the  parade  or  ostentation  of  elo- 
quence, he  impresses  on  the  mind  of  the  reader  all  the 
feelings  which  seem  to  prevail  in  his  o\va. 

The  current  of  fashion  has  for  some  time  been  set- 
ting strongly  against  classical  learning.     In  an  age  of 

O  O    J  O 

so  much  intellectual  activity  as  the  present,  all  sorts  of 
new  opinions  are  received  with  favor.  The  most 
extravagant  have  their  hour  of  triumph  until  they  are 
chased  from  the  stage  by  some  new  absurdity,  or  until 
the  restless  love  of  change  is  drawn  off  to  some  more 
startling  paradox.  This  insatiable  thirst  for  novelty  is 
carried  into  literature  as  well  as  other  things.  But  the 
principles  of  good  taste  are  unchangeable.  They  have 
their  foundations  deeply  laid  in  nature  and  truth,  and 
the  tide  of  time  which  sweeps  into  oblivion  the  sickly 
illusions  of  distempered  imaginations,  passes  over  these 
unhurt.  The  Bavii  and  Macvii  of  former  ages,  who 


GRECIAN    AND    ROMAN    ELOQUENCE.  267 

like  those  of  later  times  enjoyed  for  their  hour  the 
sunshine  of  fashionable  celebrity,  have  been  long  ago 
gathered  to  their  long  home,  but  the  beauties  of  Homer 
and  Virgil  are  as  fresh  now  as  they  were  at  the  begin- 
ning. Independent  of  the  arguments  commonly  used 
in  favor  of  classical  learning,  there  arc  two  considera- 
tions which  recommend  these  studies  to  peculiar  favor 
in  this  country.  I  advert  to  them  the  more  willingly, 
because  they  have  not  been  usually  urged  in  propor- 
tion to  their  importance. 

The  first  is  addressed  to  our  literary  ambition.  If 
there  be  any  department  of  elegant  literature  in  which 
we  may  hope  to  surpass  our  European  ancestors  and 
cotemporaries,  it  is  in  eloquence.  It  is  the  fairest  and 
most  hopeful  field  which  now  remains  for  literary  dis- 
tinction. In  every  other  the  moderns,  if  they  have  not 
equalled,  are  not  far  behind  the  ancients.  Their  poetry 
can  scarcely  claim  an  advantage  over  that  of  the 
moderns,  except  what  it  owes  directly  to  the  superiority 
of  the  ancient  languages.  But  if  we  except  some  of 
the  finest  productions  of  the  French  pulpit  in  the  reign 
of  Louis  XIV.  there  is  nothing  in  modern  literature 
which  approaches  the  eloquence  of  antiquity.  The 
most  accomplished  of  our  forensic  and  parliamentary 
speakers  are  at  an  immeasurable  distance  from  the 
perfection  of  the  ancient  orators.  If  there  be  any 
modern  nation,  which  may  hope  to  emulate  them  with 
some  prospect  of  success,  it  is  our  own.  In  our  free 
institutions  and  in  the  free  genius  of  our  countrymen 
we  have  all  that  is  necessary.  The  soil  is  prepared 
and  we  are  already  a  nation  of  debaters.  But  if  we 
would  add  to  the  faculty  of  fluent  speaking  the  gifts  of 
eloquence,  these  must  be  sought  where  the  ancients 
found  them,  in  a  patient  and  persevering  devotion  to 


268         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

the  art.  We  must  be  made  sensible  both  of  its  dignity 
and  its  difficulty,  and  nothing  can  so  effectually  give 
us  this  knowledge  as  a  familiar  acquaintance  with  the 
inimitable  remains  of  the  orators  of  Greece  and  Home. 
The  second  consideration  is  of  a  political  character. 
The  feudal  governments  of  Europe  may  have  an  inter- 
est in  discouraging  a  taste  for  these  studies.  The  lite- 
rature of  antiquity,  in  its  prevailing  tone  and  character, 
is  deeply  impregnated  with  the  free  spirit  of  the  age  in 
which  it  was  produced.  Nothing  can  be  more  repug- 
nant to  that  temper  of  patient  servility  which  it  is  the 
policy  of  such  governments  to  foster.  Nothing  can 
more  powerfully  invigorate  those  generous  feelings 
which  are  inspired  by  the  consciousness  of  freedom, 
than  a  familiarity  with  the  historians  and  orators  of 
Greece  and  Rome.  There  is  aa  uncompromising 
spirit  of  liberty  breathing  its  divine  inspirations  over 
every  page,  wholly  irreconcilable  with  that  courtly 
suppleness  which  is  adapted  to  the  genius  of  these  gov- 
ernments. These  proud  republicans  had  no  supersti- 
tious veneration  for  anointed  heads.  They  were  ac- 
customed to  behold  suppliant  royalty  trembling  in  the 
antichambers  of  their  Senate,  or  its  haughty  spirit  still 
more  humbled  in  swelling  the  triumphal  pomp  of  their 
generals  and  consuls.  These  sights  served  to  nourish 
a  profound  feeling  of  the  dignity,  which  is  attached  to 
the  person  of  a  freeman,  a  feeling  more  deeply  engra- 
ved on  the  spirit  of  antiquity  than  any  other  sentiment 
of  the  heart.  It  seems  to  have  constituted  the  very 
soul  of  their  genius,  and  it  breathes  its  sacred  fires 
through  every  ramification  of  their  literature.  So  in- 
timately was  it  incorporated  with  the  very  elements  of 
their  intellectual  nature,  that. nothing  could  extinguish 
it  short  of  those  calamities  which  spread  their  deadly 


RELIGION.  269 

mildews  over  the  fires  of  genius  itself.  After  the  con- 
stitutional liberty  of  the  country  sunk  under  the  weight 
of  military  despotism,  its  scattered  flames  still  broke 
out  at  intervals  in  the  few  great  men  who  arose  to 
throw  a  gleam  of  brightness  over  the  surrounding 
gloom.  It  shewed  itself  in  the  pathetic  and  affecting 
complaints  of  Tacitus,  and  burst  forth  in  the  bitter  and 
indignant  sarcasms  of  Juvenal.  The  venerable  father 
of  song  declared  in  prophetic  numbers  that  the  first 
day  of  servitude  robbed  man  of  half  his  virtue,  and 
Longinus,  the  last  of  the  ancient  race  of  great  men, 
holds  up  the  lights  of  fifteen  centuries  experience  to 
verify  the  words  of  the  poet.  It  is  democracy,  says 
he,  that  is  the  propitious  nurse  of  great  talents,  and  it 
is  only  in  democracy  that  they  flourish.  Let  the  min- 
ions of  legitimacy  then  extinguish  if  they  can  the  emu- 
lation of  ancient  eloquence  ;  it  is  their  most  dangerous 
enemy  ;  but  let  us,  who  inherit  the  liberties  of  the  an- 
cient republics,  cherish  it  with  a  sacred  devotion.  It 
is  at  once  the  child  and  the  champion  of  freedom. 


RELIGION. 


RELIGION,  as  introduced  to  us  by  our  Saviour,  attracts 
our  attention  and  enlists  our  affections,  not  by  any 
solemn  pomp  or  formal  parade,  but  by  her  beautiful 
and  interesting  simplicity,  her  real  and  intrinsic  worth. 
Nor  has  she  been  introduced  to  us,  merely  that  she 


270         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

may  dwell  in  our  temples  to  be  gazed  at  from  a  dis- 
tance and  occasionally  adored.  No.  She  lias  been 
introduced  to  us,  that  \ve  might  take  her  familiarly  by 
the  hand,  conduct  her  into  our  houses  and  seat  her  by 
our  firesides, — not  as  an  occasional  visitor  there,  but  as 
an  intimate  friend — perfectly  free  and  unreserved,  ever 
ready  to  lend  her  aid  in  making  home  the  abode  of 
happiness,  or  to  go  forth  with  us  and  assist  in  elevating 
and  purifying  the  pleasures  and  the  intercourse  of  social 
life  ;  ever  ready  to  assist  in  the  various  labors  of  life — 
to  guide  and  cheer  the  conversation — to  bend  over  the 
bed  of  sickness,  or  to  mingle  her  sympathies  with  those 
who  are  mourning.  It  is  her  office  to  elevate  and  im- 
prove mankind,  not  by  looking  down  upon  them  from 
above,  but  by  dwelling  familiarly  and  habitually  among 
them,  restraining,  by  the  respect  which  her  presence 
inspires,  every  thing  impure  and  unholy,  until  she  lias 
awakened  aspirations  after  the  pure,  the  holy,  the  spir- 
itual, the  infinite  and  eternal.  Such  was  the  Christian 
Religion  as  introduced  to  us  by  our  Saviour.  Would 
that  she  might  ever  remain  such,  an  inmate  of  our 
houses,  a  member  of  our  family  circles,  whose  form 
and  features  are  familiar  to  our  children,  and  for  whom 
their  attachment  grows  with  their  growth  and  strength- 
ens with  their  strength.  But  such  have  not,  it  would 
seem,  been  the  feelings  of  mankind  in  regard  to  her. 
They,  filled  with  admiration,  perhaps,  for  her  excel- 
lence, and  fearing,  lest  she  might  be  treated  with  rude 
familiarity,  have  thought  to  add  to  her  dignity  and  to 
increase  the  respect  entertained  for  her,  by  enveloping 
her  in  the  folds  of  unintelligible  mysteries,  and  by  suf- 
fering her  to  be  approached  only  in  a  formal  manner, 
upon  the  set  days  when  and  the  appointed  places  where 


RELIGION.  271 

she  holds  her  levees.  The  consequences  of  this  have 
been  such  as  might  have  been  expected.  While  there 
are  multitudes  of  admirers  of  Religion,  as  one  of  a 
higher  order  of  beings  altogether  above  and  beyond 
themselves,  there  are  few  who  make  her  the  compan- 
ion of  their  daily  walk — few  who  take  her  to  themselves 
and,  in  the  firm  conviction  that  they  were  made  for 
each  other,  leave  all  things  else,  cleave  unto  and  be- 
come one  with  her. 

Would  that  we  might  all  embrace  Christianity  as  she 
is  in  herself — as  she  was  introduced  to  us  by  our  Sa- 
viour, in  all  her  simplicity — in  all  her  purity — that  we 
might  make  her  the  companion  of  our  lives — the  friend 
of  our  hearts.  She  is  one,  who  will  with  readiness 
accompany  us  wherever  we  go — pointing  out  to  us  the 
way  of  our  duty  and  the  sources  of  our  happiness. 
Are  we  children  she  will  teach  us  the  duties  of  chil- 
dren. Arc  we  parents  she  will  instruct  us  in  our  duties 
as  parents.  In  prosperity  she  will  increase  our  happi- 
ness— in  adversity  she  will  sweeten  our  cup — in  sick- 
ness she  will  alleviate  our  pains,  and,  when  called 
away  by  the  stern  summons  of  death,  she  will  accom- 
pany us  and  introduce  us  into  the  society  of  heaven 
with  which  she  is  intimate — the  society  of  our  God — 
of  Jesus  our  Saviour — and  of  the  spirits  of  the  just  made 
perfect,  concerning  whom  she  has  often  conversed  with 
us,  making  us  acquainted  with  their  principles,  feelings 
and  characters,  and  exerting  within  us  a  desire  to  be 
with  them. 


THE  DESERTED  WIFE. 

Bv  Mrs.  Ann  S.  Si"f.licn«. 
'  Like  ivy,  woman's  love  will  cling 

IMMEDIATELY  after  the  horrid  murder  of  young  Darn- 
ley,  Mary  of  Scotland  removed  from  the  scene  of  his 
death  to  Sterling,  ostensibly  on  a  visit  to  her  infant  son. 
Thither  she  was  followed  by  all  the  gay  members  of 
her  court,  among  whom  were  the  Earl  of  Bothwell  and 
Balfour,  the  suspected  murderers.  A  short  time  pre- 
vious to  this  journey  Mary  had  received  a  letter  from 
one  of  her  subjects  in  the  north,  strenuously  recom- 
mending a  young  and  interesting  female  to  her  protec- 
tion, who,  as  the  letter  stated,  had  especial  reasons  for 
sojourning  awhile  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  court. 
Mary  with  her  usual  benevolence  kindly  received  the 
lovely  stranger,  and  was  so  won  by  her  grace  and 
melancholy  beauty,  that  with  the  thoughtlessness  of  her 
impulsive  character,  she  installed  her  in  the  royal 
household  and  admitted  her  to  the  closest  intimacy  of 
mistress  and  servant.  Her  affections  daily  increased 
for  one  of  whom  she  knew  nothing,  except  that  she 
was  reported  to  have  sprung  from  a  noble  but  impover- 
ished family,  and  had  been  drawn  to  court  by  her  in- 
terest in  a  dear  relation,  or  perhaps  lover.  Tbe  queen 
did  not  trouble  herself  to  inquire  into  particulars,  at  a 
time  when  her  own  affairs  not  only  engrossed  her 
thoughts,  but  the  attention  of  all  Europe.  Certain  it 
was,  that  whatever  had  drawn  Ellen  Craigh  to  the  Scot- 
tish court,  it  was  no  desire  to  partake  of  its  pleasures. 


THE    DESERTED   WIFE.  273 

Though  she  occasionally  mingled  with  the  ladies  of 
Mary's  household,  and  even  listened  with  silent  interest 
to  the  scandal  which  recent  events  had  given  rise  to,  she 
sedulously  secluded  herself  from  the  gallants  of  the 
court,  and  on  no  occasion  had  been  known  to  leave  the 
immediate  apartment  of  the  queen,  except  for  a  short 
space  each  day,  when  the  relative  who  had  drawn  her 
from  home  might  be  supposed  to  occupy  her  attention. 

On  the  day  our  story  commences,  Throgmorton,  the 
English  ambassador,  had  arrived  at  Sterling  with  des- 
patches, which  had  been  forwarded  from  London  after 
the  first  news  of  young  Darnley's  death  reached  the 
court  of  St.  James.  Mary,  eager  to  conciliate  the  im- 
perious Elizabeth,  had  ordered  an  entertainment  to  be 
made  in  honor  of  her  ambassador,  and  yielding  to  his 
first  request,  or  rather  demand  for  an  audience,  had 
been  more  than  an  hour  closetted  with  him,  in  the  little 
oratory  which  communicated  alike  with  her  audience- 
room  and  sleeping  chamber. 

The  hour  for  robing  had  long  passed,  and  Ellen 
Craigh  was  alone  in  the  royal  bed-chamber,  waiting 
the  appearance  of  her  mistress.  She  might  have  been 
taken  for  a  sorrowing  angel,  as  she  sat  in  the  embra- 
sure of  a  window,  with  the  mellow-tinted  light  stream- 
ing through  the  stained  glass  over  her  tresses  of  waving 
gold,  and  flooding  her  small  and  exquisite  figure  with 
a  brilliancy  almost  too  gorgeous  to  harmonize  with  the 
delicate  cheek  and  sorrowful  blue  eyes,  which,  at  the 
moment,  wore  an  expression  of  suffering  which  nothing 
on  earth  can  represent,  so  patient  and  holy  was  it. 
She  continued  in  one  position,  listlessly  swaying  the 
cord  of  twisted  gold,  which  looped  back  the  curtain 
falling  in  magnificent  volumes  over  the  upper  part  of 
24 


274  THE    PORTLAND    SKETCH    BOOK. 

the  window,  or  pulling  the  threads  from  a  massive 
tassel  and  scattering  them  one  by  one  at  her  feet,  till 
the  carpet  around  looked  as  if  embroidered  over  and 
over  with  the  glittering  fragments.  The  indistinct 
voices  which  came  from  the  oratory,  where  the  queen 
and  the  ambassador  were  seated,  fell  unheeded  upon 
her  senses,  till  a  tone  was  mingled  with  theirs  which 
started  her  to  sudden  life.  She  leaped  up  with  an 
energy  that  sent  the  mutilated  tassel  with  a  crash 
against  the  window,  and  flinging  back  the  tapestry 
which  concealed  the  door  of  the  oratory,  bent  her  eye 
to  a  crevice  in  the  ill-fitted  pannel.  The  beating  of 
her  heart  was  almost  audible,  and  the  thin  slender  hand 
which  held  back  the  tapestry  quivered  like  a  newly 
prisoned  bird,  as  she  gazed  with  intense  eagerness  into 
the  apartment.  The  queen  sat  directly  opposite  the 
door.  At  her  right  hand  was  placed  a  dark  handsome 
man,  of  about  thirty,  with  a  haughty  and  almost  fierce 
array  of  countenance,  dressed  in  a  style  of  careless 
magnificence,  which  bespoke  a  love  of  display  rather 
than  true  elegance  in  his  choice  of  attire.  A  subdued 
smile  lurked  about  his  lips,  and  he  seemed  intently 
occupied  in  counting  the  links  of  a  massive  gold 
chain,  which  fell  over  his  doublet  of  three-piled  velvet, 
studded  and  gorgeously  wrought  with  jewels  and  em- 
broidery. Now  and  then  he  would  drop  his  hand 
carelessly  over  the  queen's  chair-arm,  and  fix  his  black 
eyes  with  a  bold  and  admiring  gaze  on  her  features,  with 
a  freedom  which  bespoke  more  of  audacious  love,  than 
of  respect  for  the  royal  beauty.  She  not  only  submit- 
ted to  his  free  glance,  but  more  than  once  returned  it 
with  one  of  those  looks  which  had  scattered  sorrow 
through  many  a  Scottish  bosom. 

Throgmorton  sat  little  apart.     He  had  been  speaking 


THE    DESERTED    WIFE.  275 

in  a  strain  of  calm  expostulation  ;  but  marking  the  in- 
terchange of  glances  between  the  queen  and  her  haugh- 
ty favorite,  he  became  indignant,  and  addressed  Both- 
well  with  a  degree  of  cutting  contempt,  which  turned 
the  lurking  smile  on  the  nobleman's  lip  to  a  curl  of 
bitter  defiance.  Heedless  of  the  royal  presence,  he 
stood  up,  and  rudely  pushing  the  council-table  from 
before  him,  half  drew  his  sword,  as  if  to  punish  the 
offender  upon  the  spot.  Throgmorton  endured  the 
blaze  of  his  large  fierce  eyes  with  calm  composure, 
and  deliberately  measuring  his  person  from  head  to 
foot  with  a  contemptuous  glance,  was  about  to  resume 
his  discourse  ;  but  the  queen  rose  from  her  seat,  and 
placing  her  white  and  jewelled  hand  persuasively  on 
Bothwell's  arm,  she  fixed  her  beautiful  eyes  full  on 
his,  and  uttered  a  few  low  words  of  entreaty  ;  then 
turning  to  the  envoy,  her  exquisite  face  flushed  with  an- 
ger and  her  eyes  flashing  like  diamonds,  she  exclaimed, 

"  Leave  our  presence,  sir  ambassador,  and  thank 
our  moderation  that  thou  art  permitted  to  depart  in 
safety,  after  this  insult  to  our  most  trusty  and  faithful 
follower  !  Nay,  my  lord  of  Both  well,  put  thy  hand 
from  that  sword-hilt — this  matter  rests  with  us — doubt 
not,  thy  honor  as  well  as  that  of  thy  mistress  shall  be 
duly  righted." 

The  frowning  nobleman  pushed  back  his  blade  with 
a  clang,  and  turned  moodily  away. 

The  queen  looked  on  him  gravely  for  a  moment,  and 
then  turning  to  the  Englishman  proceeded  with  less  of 
vehemence  than  had  accompanied  her  last  command. 

"  The  message  of  our  loving  cousin  has  given  us  a 
surfeit  of  advice.  To-morrow  we  will  resume  the 
subject,"  she  said,  forcing  one  of  the  resistless  smiles, 


276         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

which  she  could  call  up  at  will,  to  brighten  her  lips  ; 
and  with  a  graceful  wave  of  the  hand,  she  motioned 
him  to  withdraw. 

The  envoy  bowed  low  and  left  the  room  without 
further  speech.  But  the  door  was  scarcely  closed, 
when,  with  sudden  self-abandonment,  the  queen  threw 
herself  into  her  chair,  and  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 
Both  well,  who  was  angrily  pacing  the  room,  approached, 
and  sinking  to  one  knee  took  her  hand  tenderly  in  his. 
She  looked  at  him  a  moment  through  her  tears,  mur- 
mured a  few  broken  words,  and  dropping  her  face  to 
his  shoulder,  wept  bitterly. 

Poor  Ellen  Craigh  witnessed  the  whole  scene.  She 
heard  Bothwell's  expressions  of  soothing  endearment, 
and  saw  the  beautiful  head,  with  its  garniture  of  brown 
tresses,  fall  with  such  helpless  dependence  on  his  shoul- 
der. A  moment,  and  the  queen  drew  the  snowy 
hand,  sparkling  with  tears  and  jewels,  from  her  eyes, 
and  sat  upright.  With  a  choking  sensation  the  poor 
girl  gazed  on  that  face,  in  its  transcendent  loveliness, 
till  a  mist  gathered  before  her  eyes,  and  the  words  of 
Bothwell  came  broken  and  confusedly  to  her  ear. 
When  they  left  the  oratory  a  few  moments  after,  her 
hand  fell  nerveless  to  her  side,  the  tapestry  swept  over 
the  door  with  a  rustling  sound,  and  staggering  a  few 
paces  into  the  chamber,  she  fell  her  whole  length  upon 
the  carpet,  her  golden  hair  sweeping  back  from  her 
bloodless  forehead,  her  pale  lips  trembling  and  her 
slight  limbs  as  strengthless  as  an  infant's.  Thus  she 
lay  for  a  time,  and  then  tears  gushed  profusely  from 
her  shut  eyes.  After  which  she  arose  to  a  sitting 
posture,  with  her  feeble  hands  twisted  the  scattered 
ringlets  round  her  head,  and  arose  ;  but  so  pale,  so 


THE    DESERTED    WIFE.  277 

wo-begonc,  her  very  heart  seemed  crushed  forever. 
Dragging  herself  to  her  favorite  seat  in  the  embrasure 
of  a  window,  she  leaned  her  temple  against  the  stained 
glass,  and  murmured — 

"Enough! — oh,  enough! — I  must  go  home  now." 
But  while  the  words  of  misery  trembled  on  her  lips,  the 
door  was  flung  open,  and  Mary  Stewart  entered  the 
apartment.  The  room  was  misty  with  the  purple 
glow  of  sunset,  and  the  queen  passed  her  shrinking 
attendant  without  observing  her.  Hastily  advancing  to 
a  table,  she  took  up  a  golden  bird-call,  and  blew  a  per- 
emptory summons ;  then  throwing  herself  into  a  chair 
which  stood  opposite  a  small  table,  on  which  glittered  the 
splendid  paraphernalia  of  a  French  toilette,  she  waited 
the  appearance  of  her  attendants.  Ellen  Craigh  made  a 
strong  effort  and  arose. 

"  Ha,  art  thou  there,  my  mountain-daisy  1 "  said  the 
queen,  looking  kindly  upon  her, — "  order  lights,  and 
send  back  the  flock  of  tire-women  my  silly  whistle 
has  brought  trooping  hitherward — no  hands  but  thine 
shall  robe  me  to  night." 

Ellen  obeyed,  and  after  a  few  moments  the  light 
from  two  large  candles  of  perfumed  wax  broke  over 
the  little  mirror,  with  its  framework  of  filigree  silver, 
and  flashed  upon  the  golden  essence-bottles  and  scat- 
tered jewels  which  covered  the  dressing-table.  The 
poor  waiting-maid  drew  back  from  the  brilliant  glare 
with  the  shudder  of  a  sick  heart.  The  queen  looked 
on  her  earnestly  for  a  moment,  and  then  putting  the 
golden  locks  back  from  her  temple,  as  she  would  have 
caressed  a  child,  she  said — 

"What! — cheeks  like  new-fallen  snow! — lips  trem- 
bling like  the  aspen  ! — and  eye-lashes  heavy  with 
24* 


278         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

tears  ! — how  is  this,  child  1 — but  we  bethink  us  ; — was 
it  not  some  untoward  affair  of  the  heart  which  brought 
thee  to  our  court  1  We  have  been  too  negligent ; — 
tell  us  thy  grief,  and  on  the  honor  of  a  queen,  if  there 
be  wrong  we  will  have  thee  bravely  righted — so  speak 
freely." 

"  Oh,  no,  no ! — not  here  ! — never  to  you." 

Here  poor  Ellen  broke  off  and  stood  before  the 
queen,  her  hands  clasped,  her  lips  trembling  and  her 
large  supplicating  eyes  fixed  imploringly  on  her  face. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  queen  soothingly,  "  at  some 
other  time  be  it — but  remember  that  in  Mary  Stewart 
her  attendant  may  find  a  safe  friend  as  well  as  an 
indulgent  mistress,"  and  shaking  her  magnificent  tresses 
over  her  shoulders,  the  royal  beauty  composed  herself 
for  the  operations  of  the  toilette. 

Ellen  gathered  up  the  glossy  volumes  of  hair  and 
commenced  her  task.  Her  limbs  shook,  a  cold  moist- 
ure crept  over  her  forehead,  and  her  quivering  hands 
wandered  with  melancholy  listlessness,  through  the 
mass  of  shining  ringlets  it  was  her  duty  to  arrange. 
As  she  stooped  forward  in  her  task,  one  of  her  own 
fair  curls  fell  down  and  mingled,  like  a  flash  of  spun 
gold,  with  those  of  her  mistress.  As  if  there  had  been 
contagion  in  the  touch,  she  flung  it  back  with  a  smile 
of  strange,  cold  bitterness,  the  first  and  last  that  ever 
wreathed  her  pure  lips  ;  for  hers  was  a  heart  to  suffer 
and  endure,  but  never  to  hate  ;  it  might  break,  but  no 
wrong  could  harden  it. 

While  her  toilette  was  in  progress,  Mary  became 
nervous  and  restless,  now  pushing  the  velvet  cushions 
from  her  feet,  and  then  moving  the  lights  about  the 
dressing-table,  as  if  dissatisfied  with  the  arrangement  of 


THE    DESERTED    WIFE.  279 

every  thing  about  her.  At  length  she  fell  back  in  her 
chair,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  fairly  burst 
into  tears.  Ellen  grasped  the  back  of  her  chair,  and 
bending  her  pale  face  to  the  queen's  ear,  murmured — 

"  Tears  are  for  the  deserted — why  does  the  queen 
weep  1 " 

Mary  was  too  deeply  engrossed  with  her  own  feel- 
ings to  mark  the  exact  words,  or  the  tremulous  voice 
of  her  attendant.  She  threw  the  damp  hair  back  from 
her  face,  and  dashing  the  tears  from  her  eyes  exclaim- 
ed— 

"  No,  no  !  it  is  nothing — proceed — there  !  let  that 
ringlet  fall  thus  upon  the  neck — now  our  robe,  quickly 
— we  shall  be  waited  for  at  the  banquet." 

Ellen  brought  forth  the  usual  mourning  robe  of  black 
velvet,  laden  with  bugles  ;  but  a  flush  of  anger,  or  per- 
haps of  shame,  overspread  the  queen's  face,  and  with 
an  impatient  gesture  she  exclaimed — 

"  Not  that,  girl — not  that — I  will  mock  my  heart  no 
longer  ! — away  with  it,  and  bring  a  more  seemly  gar- 
ment ! — the  proud  Englishman  shall  not  scoff  at  our 
widow's  weeds  again." 

Ellen  obeyed,  and  the  queen  was  soon  robed  as  she 
had  desired.  Few  objects  could  have  been  more  beau- 
tiful than  this  dangerous  woman,  when  she  arose  from 
her  toilette — the  perfect,  yet  almost  voluptuous  propor- 
tion of  her  form  betrayed  by  the  snowy  robe,  her  ta- 
pering arms  banded  with  jewels,  and  her  superb  waist 
bound  with  a  string  of  immense  pearls,  clasped  in  front 
by  a  single  diamond,  and  terminating  where  the  broi- 
dery of  her  robe  commenced,  in  tassels  of  threaded 
pearls,  A  tiara  of  small  Scotish  thistles,  crowded  am- 
ethysts and  rough  emeralds,  burned  with  a  purple  light 


280         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

among  her  curls,  and  the  face  beneath  seemed  scarce- 
ly human,  so  radiant  was  its  expression,  and  so  beauti- 
ful the  perfect  harmony  of  its  features.  Throwing  a 
careless  glance  at  the  mirror — for  Mary  was  too  confi- 
dent of  her  attraction  to  be  fastidious — she  took  up 
her  perfumed  handkerchief  and  left  the  room. 

Ellen  Craigh  gazed  after  her  sovereign  till  the  last 
graceful  wave  of  her  drapery  disappeared  ;  then  draw- 
ing a  deep  breath,  as  if  her  heart  had  thrown  off  an 
oppression  quite  insupportable,  she  cast  a  glance  al- 
most of  loathing  around  the  sumptuous  apartment,  and 
entered  the  oratory.  Dropping  on  her  knees  by  the 
chair  which  Bothwcll  had  occupied,  she  laid  her  cheek 
on  the  cushion  and  wept  long  and  freely,  as  if  the  con- 
tact with  something  he  had  touched  had  a  softening  in- 
fluence on  her  heart.  As  she  arose,  the  gleam  of  a 
handkerchief  lying  on  the  floor  attracted  her  attention. 
She  snatched  it  up  with  a  faint  cry  of  joy,  for  on  one 
corner  she  found  embroidered  an  earl's  coronet  and 
the  crest  of  Bothwell.  Eagerly  thrusting  the  prize  in- 
to her  bosom,  she  left  the  oratory  and  passed  into  the 
open  street. 

It  was  midnight  when  Mary  Stewart  returned  to  her 
chamber.  The  lights  were  burning  dimly  on  the  ta- 
ble, and  an  air  of  gloomy  grandeur  filled  the  apart- 
ment. The  queen  was  evidently  much  distressed  ;  a 
deep  glow  was  burning  on  her  cheek,  and  her  usually 
smiling  eyes  were  full  of  a  strange  excitement.  She 
snatched  up  the  little  golden  call  as  if  to  give  a  sum- 
mons, and  then  flung  it  down  again,  exclaiming — 

u  No,  no — I  could  not  brook  their  searching  eyes," 
and  with  a  still  more  disturbed  air  she  paced  the  cham- 
ber, now  and  then  stopping  to  divest  herself  of  the  or- 
naments she  had  worn  at  the  ambassador's  festival. 


THE    DESERTED    WIFE.  281 

Perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  the  agitated 
woman  unrobed  herself,  and  flinging  back  the  crimson 
drapery  which  fell  in  heavy  masses  from  the  large 
square  bedstead,  threw  herself  upon  the  gorgeous 
counterpane  and  buried  herself  in  the  folds,  as  if  they 
could  shut  out  the  evil  thoughts  that  burned  in  her 
heart ;  but  it  was  in  vain  that  she  strove  for  rest — 
that  she  gathered  the  rich  drapery  over  her  head  and 
pressed  her  burning  cheek  to  the  pillow  ;  her  thoughts 
were  all  alive  and  astray. 

It  was  a  mournful  sight — that  beautiful  and  brilliant 
woman  yielding  herself  to  the  thraldom  of  a  wicked 
man,  and  rushing  heedlessly  to  that  which  was  to 
throw  a  stain  upon  her  memory,  enduring  as  history 
itself.  Sin  is  hideous  in  every  form — but  when  it 
darkens  the  bright  and  beautiful  of  earth,  like  a  cloud 
over  the  sun,  we  reproach  it  for  its  own  blackness,  and 
doubly  for  the  brightness  it  conceals. 

As  the  misguided  woman  lay,  with  a  hand  pressed 
over  her  eyes,  and  one  arm,  but  half  divested  of  its 
jewels,  flung  out  with  a  kind  of  desperate  carelessness 
upon  the  counterpane,  the  murmur  of  an  infant  voice 
reached  her  from  a  neighboring  apartment.  She  start- 
ed up  and  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

"  Woe  is  me,!  "  she  exclaimed,  "  this  mad  passion 
makes  me  forgetful  alike  of  prayer  and  child." 

Folding  a  dressing-gown  about  her,  she  entered  the 
room  whence  the  sound  had  come,  and  reappeared 
with  an  infant  boy  pressed  to  her  bosom.  After  kiss- 
ing him  again  and  again  with  a  sort  of  despairing  fond- 
ness, she  bore  him  to  a  recess  where  a  small  lamp  of 
chased  silver  burned  before  a  crucifix  of  the  same  met- 
al, and  an  embroidered  hassock  was  placed  as  if  for 


282         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

devotion.  Had  she  been  left  alone  in  the  holy  still- 
ness of  the  night,  with  her  lovely  babe  upon  her  bo- 
som, and  the  touching  symbol  of  our  Saviour's  death 
before  her,  the  evil  influence  which  was  hurrying  her 
on  to  ruin  might  have  been  counterbalanced  ;  but  as 
she  knelt  with  the  smiling  babe  lying  on  the  hassock, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  crucifix,  and  the  guilty  glow  eb- 
bing from  her  cheeks,  the  door  softly  opened,  and 
the  Earl  of  Bothwcll  stole  into  the  chamber.  Mary 
sprang  to  her  feet  as  if  to  reprove  the  insolent  intruder, 
but  a  sense  of  modesty,  which  in  all  her  follies  seemed 
never  to  have  left  her,  succeeded  to  her  indignation,  if 
indeed  she  felt  any.  She  glanced  at  her  dishabille 
with  a  painful  flush,  and  hastily  seating  herself,  drew 
her  uncovered  feet,  which  had  been  hastily  thrust  into 
a  pair  of  furred  slippers,  under  the  folds  of  her  dress- 
ing gown,  and  then  requested  him  to  withdraw,  in  a 
voice  which  betrayed  as  much  of  encouragement  as 
of  reproof. 

Without  even  noticing  her  request,  Bothwell  lifted 
the  boy  from  the  hassock,  and  seating  himself,  address- 
ed her  in  a  low  and  gentle  tone,  which  he  knew  well 
how  to  assume.  The  erring  woman  listened  to  the 
witchery  of  his  voice,  till  the  unnatural  glow  again  died 
her  cheek,  and  she  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  his,  as  a 
beautiful  bird  yielding  to  the  fascination  of  a  serpent. 

"  But  thy  wife,"  she  said  in  a  low  irresolute  tone, 
when  Bothwell  pressed  for  a  reply  to  what  he  had  been 
urging,  "  much  as  Mary  may  love — much  as  she  may 
sacrifice,  she  cannot  thrust  a  young  and  loving  woman 
from  a  heart  she  loves  and  puts  her  faith  in." 

"  Young  and  loving  !  "  repeated  Bothwell,  with  a 
sneer  curling  his  haughty  lip,  "  young  and  loving  ! — 


THE    DESERTED    WIFE.  283 

truly  your  grace  must  have  been  strangely  misinform- 
ed ; — she  who  styles  herself  Countess  of  Bothwell 
nearly  doubles  the  age  of  her  unfortunate  husband  ;  and 
as  for  love,  if  she  knows  any,  it  is  for  the  broad  acres 
which  own  him  as  their  master.1" 

A  scarcely  perceptible  smile  dimpled  the  queen's 
mouth,  as  she  heard  this  account  of  her  rival,  but  she 
made  no  reply,  and  Bothwell  resumed  his  tone  of  earn- 
est entreaty.  As  he  proceeded,  his  voice  and  man- 
ner became  more  energetic. 

"  Say  that  you  consent,"  he  said,  "  say  but  a  word, 
and  the  breath  of  evil  shall  never  reach  you  ; — say  but 
your  hand  is  mine  as  a  token  of  assent,  and  Bothwell 
will  worship  you  like  a  very  slave." 

The  queen  raised  her  hand,  and  though  it  trembled 
like  an  aspen,  she  placed  it  in  his. 

"  It  is  thy  queen  who  is  the  slave,"  she  murmured 
in  a  broken  voice,  as  Bothwell  raised  the  beautiful 
hand  to  his  lips,  and  covered  it  with  rapturous  kisses. 

As  he  relinquished  her  hand,  it  came  in  contact  with 
that  of  the  child.  As  if  an  adder  had  stung  her,  she 
drew  it  back,  and  then  with  a  sudden  gush  of  feeling 
snatched  the  boy  to  her  bosom  and  covered  it  with  tears 
and  kisses.  Bothwell  dreaded  the  influence  of  the  pure 
maternal  feeling  thus  expressed.  Gently  forcing  the 
young  prince  from  her  embrace,  he  whispered — 

"  Trust  him  to  me,  dearest — trust  him  to  one  who 
would  spill  his  heart's  blood,  rather  than  give  pain  to 
mother  or  child,"  and  pressing  her  hand  again  to  his 
lips,  the  arch-hypocrite  left  the  room  with  the  same 
cautious  tread  he  had  entered  it  with. 

In  a  few  moments  after,  he  placed  the  young  prince 
in  charge  with  a  creature  in  his  confidence,  saying — 

"  See  to  it,  that  none  of  the  Darnley  faction  get  pos- 


284         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

session  of  the  brat, — keep  him  safe,  or  strangle  him  at 
once." 

On  the  next  day  the  Earl  of  Bothwell  left  Sterling, 
and  it  was  whispered  that  he  had  been  banished  from 
court  through  the  influence  of  the  English  ambassador  ; 
but  conjecture  was  lost  in  astonishment,  and  when,  two 
days  after,  the  court  at  Sterling  was  broken  up,  and 
the  queen,  while  on  her  way  to  Edinburgh,  was  met 
by  Bothwell,  with  a  force  of  eight  hundred  men,  and 
conveyed  to  Dunbar  by  seeming  violence,  men  stood 
aghast  at  the  news ;  but  those  who  had  marked  their 
queen  closely  during  the  few  preceding  days,  concurred 
in  the  belief  that  she  privately  sanctioned  the  disgrace- 
ful outrage. 


It  was  a  gloomy  and  ancient  pile — that  in  which 
Bothwell  had  left  his  deserted  wife.  In  one  of  its 
apartments,  beside  a  huge  fire-place,  in  which  a  few 
embers  smouldered  in  a  sea  of  ashes,  sat  an  old  and 
wrinkled  woman,  spreading  her  withered  palms  for 
warmth,  and  occasionally  turning  a  wistful  look  to  the 
narrow  windows,  against  which  the  rain  and  sleet  were 
beating  with  real  violence.  As  she  listened,  the  tramp 
of  approaching  horses  was  heard  in  the  court  below, 
and  before  she  had  time  to  reach  the  door,  it  was  flung 
open,  and  the  Countess  of  Bothwell,  dripping  with  wet 
and  tottering  with  fatigue,  flung  herself  into  the  arms 
of  her  old  nurse. 

"  Sorrow  on  me,"  exclaimed  the  good  woman,  stri- 
ving to  speak  cheerful,  "  how  the  child  clings  to  my 
neck  ! — look  up,  lady-bird,  and  do  not  sob  so — I  know 
but  too  well  how  thy  journey  has  speeded — may  the 
curses  of  an  old  woman  rest 


THE    DESERTED    WIFE.  285 

"  Oh,  Mabel,  Mabel,  do  not  curse  him — do  not — we 
cannot  love  as  we  will,"  exclaimed  the  poor  countess, 
clinging  to  the  bosom  of  the  old  woman,  as  if  to  bribe 
her  from  finishing  the  anathema. 

"  Hush,  darling,  hush,"  replied  old  Mabel,  pressing 
her  withered  lips  fondly  to  the  pure  forehead  of  her 

foster-child — "  he  who  could  help  loving  thec but 

hist,  what  is  all  this  tramping  in  the  court  1 — sit  down, 
and  I  will  soon  learn." 

The  old  woman  divested  the  trembling  young  crea- 
ture of  her  wet  cloak  and  proceeded  to  the  hall.  After 
a  few  minutes  absence  she  returned  dreadfully  agita- 
ted ;  her  sunken  eyes  glowed  like  live  coals,  and  her 
bony  ringers  were  clenched  together  as  a  bird  clutches 
her  prey. 

"  My  own  darling,"  she  said  in  a  voice  which  she 
vainly  strove  to  render  steady,  "  I  had  thought  not  to 
have  given  his  cruel  message,  but " 

"  Speak  on,"  said  the  poor  young  creature,  raising 
her  large  eyes  with  the  expression  of  a  scared  ante- 
lope, "I  can  bear  any  thing  now." 

But  she  broke  off  with  a  sudden  and  joyful  cry,  for 
the  door  had  been  cautiously  opened,  and  her  long 
absent  husband  stood  before  her.  Forgetful  of  his 
estrangement — of  his  unkindness — of  every  thing  but 
his  early  love — she  sprang  eagerly  to  his  bosom  and 
kissed  him  again  and  again,  with  the  abandonment  of 
a  joyful  child.  It  must  have  been  a  heart  of  stone 
which  could  have  resisted  such  unbounded  tenderness. 
For  one  moment,  and  but  for  one,  she  was  pressed  to 
her  husband's  heart,  and  then  he  put  her  coldly  away. 

"  How  is  it  that  I  find  your   lady  here,  after  my 
express  command  to  the  contrary  1 "  he  said,  sternly 
25 


286         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

addressing  the  old  nurse,  while  he  forced  the  clinging 
arms  of  the  countess  from  his  neck. 

The  poor  young  creature  shrunk  from  his  look,  like 
a  flower  touched  by  a  sudden  frost.  Mabel  threw  her 
arm  around  her,  and  forced  her  to  confront  her  angry 
husband. 

"  Why  is  she  here  ! "  shouted  the  old  woman  fierce- 
ly, "  why  is  she  here,  in  her  own  home  ! — because  I 
could  not,  would  not  kill  her  with  her  base  lord's  mes- 
sage ! — What !  break  her  heart,  and  then  thrust  her 
forth  to  die  1 — Villain! — double-dyed  and  cowardly 

villain  ! — may  the  curses  of  a 

Before  the  old  woman  could  finish  her  anathema, 
the  enraged  Earl  had  stricken  her  grey  head  to  the 
floor.  The  frightened  countess  fell  on  her  knees  beside 
her;  but,  with  a  terrible  imprecation,  Bothwell  com- 
manded his  attendants  to  bear  his  victim  from  the  room, 
and  sternly  ordered  his  trembling  wife  to  remain. 

"  As  you  are  here,'1  he  said,  "  it  is  not  essential  that 
we  meet  again;  your  signature  is  necessary  to  this 
paper  ;  please  to  affix  it  without  useless  delay." 

The  countess  took  the  paper,  which  was  a  petition 
to  the  Commissariot-Court  for  a  divorce  from  her  hus- 
band. Before  she  had  read  the  first  line,  every  drop 
of  blood  ebbed  from  her  face.  She  did  not  faint,  but 
with  a  degree  of  energy  foreign  to  her  character, 
she  grasped  the  paper  in  her  hands,  as  if  about  to  tear 
it.  The  Earl  seized  her  wrist,  and  fiercely  demanded 
her  signature. 

"  Never — never  !  "  exclaimed  the  poor  wife,  strug- 
gling in  his  grasp — "  Oh,  Bothwell,  you  cannot  wish 
it — you  that  so  loved  me — you  that  promised  to  love 
me  forever  and  ever — no,  no !  you  do  not  mean  it — 


THE    DESERTED    WIFE.  287 

you  cannot  put  your  poor  wife  away  thus ! — I  know 
that  the  little  beauty  you  once  prized  is  gone,  but  tears 
and  sorrow  have  dimmed  it ; — bear  with  me  but  a  little 
longer — say  that  you  love  me  yet,  and  my  bloom  will 
come  again: — look  at  me,  Bothwell,  husband,  dear 
husband  !  and  say  that  you  did  not  mean  it — that  you 
gave  me  that  horrid  paper  to  frighten  me — say  but 
that,  and  your  poor  Ellen  will  worship  you  forever !  " 

This  energetic  appeal  had  its  effect,  even  in  the  hard 
hearted  Earl.  He  endured,  and  even  partially  re- 
turned the  passionate  caress  with  which  she  had  ac- 
companied her  words  ;  and  when  she  fell  back  exhaust- 
ed in  his  arms,  he  bore  her  to  a  seat  and  placed  him- 
self beside  her. 

"  Ellen,"  he  said,  "  I  will  deal  candidly  with  you — 
I  do  love  you,  and  have,  even  while  in  pursuit  of  an- 
other ;  but  you  have  yet  to  learn  that  there  is  a  stronger 
passion  than  love — ambition  !  " 

"You  do  love  me — bless  you,  bless  you!  Bothwell, 
for  saying  so  much,"  she  eagerly  exclaimed,  the  affec- 
tionate young  creature  snatching  his  hand  between  both 
hers,  and  covering  it  with  joyful  kisses. 

But  her  joy  was  of  short  duration.  As  the  serpent 
uncoils  its  glittering  folds,  so  did  Bothwell  lay  bare  the 
depravity  and  ambition  of  his  heart.  Artifice,  persua- 
sion and  threats  were  used,  and  at  length  he  prevailed. 
The  petition  for  a  divorce  was  signed  ;  but  the  heart  of 
the  poor  countess  was  broken  by  the  effort. 

It  is  almost  useless  to  tell  the  reader,  that  the  queen 
of  Scots  had  consented  to  accompany  Bothwell  to  his 
castle,  but  with  the  appearance  of  compulsion,  on  the 
night  of  his  intrusion  into  her  chamber.  It  was  to  pre- 
pare for  the  disgraceful  visit,  that  he  had  sent  orders 
for  the  expulsion  of  his  unfortunate  wife — orders  which 


288         THE  PORTLAND  SKETCH  BOOK. 

old  Mabel  had  never  delivered  ;  and  now  that  he  had 
gained  his  object,  in  obtaining  her  signature  to  the  pe- 
tition, he  proceeded  to  give  directions  for  the  castle  to 
be  put  in  order,  for  the  reception  of  the  royal  guest. 
These  arrangements  occupied  him  during  most  of  the 
night.  At  length,  weary  with  exertion,  he  fell  asleep 
in  his  chair.  It  was  morning  when  he  awoke.  The 
light  came  softly  through  a  neighboring  window,  and 
there,  at  his  feet,  with  her  head  resting  on  his  knees, 
and  her  thin,  pale  face  turned  toward  him,  lay  his  wife, 
asleep.  Rest  had  quieted  his  ambitious  thoughts.  He 
was  alone,  in  the  stillness  of  a  new  day,  with  the  gen- 
tle victim  of  his  aspiring  passions  lying  at  his  feet, 
grieved  and  heart-broken,  her  eyelids  heavy  with  weep- 
ing, and  every  limb  betraying  the  sorrow  which  preyed 
upon  her.  For  a  moment  his  heart  relented,  and  a  hot 
tear  fell  among  her  golden  curls.  Gently,  as  a  mother 
would  remove  a  sleeping  infant,  he  raised  her  head, 
laid  it  on  the  cushion  of  his  chair,  and  left  her  to  her 
loneliness. 

On  the  next  day  the  Countess  of  Bothwell  left  the 
castle  with  her  nurse,  and  not  three  hours  after,  Mary 
Stewart  entered  it  in  company  with  its  wicked  lord. 

On  the  fourth  day  of  Mary's  sojourn  at  Dunbar,  she, 
with  the  ladies  of  her  train,  joined  in  a  stag  hunt,  which 
the  Earl  had  ordered  for  their  entertainment.  The 
excitement  of  the  chase  had  drawn  Bothwell,  for  a 
moment,  from  her  bridal  rein,  when  an  old  woman 
came  from  a  neighboring  hut,  and  in  a  few  ungracious 
words,  invited  the  queen  to  rest  a  while.  Mary  grace- 
fully accepted  the  offered  courtesy,  and  some  of  her 
attendants  would  have  followed  her  to  the  hut ;  but  the 
old  woman  motioned  them  back  with  a  haughty  wave 
of  her  hand,  and  conducted  the  queen  alone.  There 


THE    DESERTED    WIFE.  289 

was  no  vestige  of  furniture  in  the  room,  except  two 
small  stools  and  a  narrow  bed,  on  which  the  outlines 
of  a  human  form  were  visible.  Grasping  the  queen's 
hand  firmly  in  her  own,  the  old  woman  drew  her  to  the 
bed,  and  throwing  back  a  sheet,  pointed  with  her  long 
fleshless  finger  to  the  form  of  a  shrouded  female. 

"  Look!"  she  sternly  exclaimed,  fixing  her  keen  eyes 
on  the  face  of  the  queen. 

Mary  looked  with  painful  interest  on  the  thin  face, 
as  white  and  cold  as  alabaster,  with  the  golden  hair 
parted  from  the  pure  forehead,  and  a  holy  quiet  settled 
on  every  beautiful  feature.  White  roses  were  scatter- 
ed over  the  pillow,  and  the  repose  of  the  dead  was 
heavenly.  Mary  bent  over  the  corpse,  and  her  tears 
fell  fast  and  thick  among  the  fresh  flowers. 

"Alas,  my  poor  Ellen!"  she  said,  turning  to  the 
woman,  who  stood  like  a  statue  pointing  sternly  to  the 
body,  "  of  what  did  she  die  1 " 

"  Of  a  broken  heart !  "  replied  the  nurse  coldly,  and 
with  the  same  icy  composure  which  had  marked  her 
conduct,  she  led  her  royal  visitor  to  the  door,  without 
speaking  another  word. 

Had  she  explained  that  Ellen  Craigh  and  the  Coun- 
tess of  Bothwell  were  the  same  person,  regret  for  the 
evil  she  had  wrought  might  have  checked  Mary  in  her 
career  of  folly.  But  the  death  of  the  deserted  wife 
was  kept  a  secret  among  the  few  faithful  followers  who 
had  accompanied  her  in  her  wild  expedition  to  Mary's 
court,  and  the  nurse,  on  whose  bosom  she  had  yielded 
up  her  life.  While  the  courts  of  Scotland  were  agi- 
tated with  the  divorce  of  Bothwell,  the  haughty  man 
little  knew  that  his  gentle  wife  had  ceased  to  feel  his 
cruelty. 


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